


Deciding Who We Are

by lilac19822



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demisexual Enjolras, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Modern Era, Pansexual Character, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilac19822/pseuds/lilac19822
Summary: A college sophomore, Enjolras is starting to feel the mounting pressure of his numerous goals and responsibilities. Now, his safe space has been infiltrated by none other than the skeptical, stubborn and entirely perplexing Grantaire. The older student is definitely an additional source of stress in Enjolras' life. ... Is it possible he could also be the solution?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras twisted a finger around one of the soft flaxen curls brushing his neck and tried to focus on the piece of paper in his hands. It outlined the tasks he hoped to accomplish with his fledgling civil rights group this semester, although right now, it seemed nothing more than a glob of disjointed words and phrases swimming across a white backdrop.

Concentration usually didn’t come this hard to him, but today his head was throbbing and he felt a sort of restless energy pulsing through his limbs.

He chalked it up to the lack of coffee in his system. He hadn’t slept well last night…or the night before…or the night before. Truth be told, he hadn’t gotten more than six solid hours of consecutive sleep since starting university.

 _Too much to do_ , he told himself at least a dozen times every day. It was true enough to help him forge on through mind-numbing exhaustion when he needed to.

A rumble of noise was starting to permeate the room as students filed in for the meeting and wasted no time striking up jovial conversations with their comrades. Enjolras tuned out the noise. He was good at that. However, when a steaming cup of black coffee was set before him, it drew his glance up at last.

Combeferre stood beside his desk, smiling warmly and gripping the leather strap of his heavily laden book bag.

Enjolras smiled back, wrapping his slender fingers around the warm beverage. “Thanks. How did you know I need this?”

“I heard you leaving our room at 5 a.m. this morning, though trying to sneak out quietly, I’m sure,” Combeferre shrugged, and then quickly added, before Enjolras could offer a sheepish apology, “Plus, I’ve never known you to turn down coffee in the entire year and a half that I’ve known you.”

“Fair enough,” Enjolras chuckled. “Have a seat.”

Combeferre complied, straddling a chair and resting his arms on the back so he was facing the golden-hair and passionate blue eyes of the de facto leader of their small coterie. “You going to share with me what you were so eager to get to that you made the brilliant choice of waking up so damn early?”

“Hmm, we don’t have quite enough time for me to share _everything_ running through my head at that hour—”

“….Or at any given hour of the day...”

Enjolras ignored the interjection, adding ruefully, “ _But_. I’d like to go over the agenda for today’s meeting with you. And get your thoughts on this upcoming rally we’re planning. I’ve acquired the permits, and nailed down the location. Just have a few more logistics to finalize.”

The two young men delved into a conversation more closely resembling a strategic-planning session. Enjolras had almost forgotten his headache, had even felt that natural surge of energy he experienced whenever he single-mindedly channeled his attention in a specific direction, when a sudden peal of laughter emanating from the corner of the room drowned out Comberferre’s voice mid-explanation of his ideas for transportation to the rally.

Enjolras was ready to brush past the interruption when he glimpsed the undoubted source of amusement from the corner of his eye. He felt his stomach automatically sour, though he couldn’t help turning his full gaze in that direction.

A curly haired brunet sat perched on one of the desks, his hands gesturing wildly, his lips twisted into a wry smile, and his pale cheeks flushed to match the rosy hue of his mouth. A handful of other students surrounded the young man, eyes enraptured as they followed his movements. They couldn’t seem to repress their laughter at his animated storytelling.

“What is he doing here?” Enjolras muttered.

Combeferre’s brow furrowed in confusion as he followed his friend’s disgruntled glare. When he spotted the brunet, however, his face cracked into a grin. “Grantaire? Dunno. Jehan must have invited him. Or Marius. Why?”

Enjolras lifted a single shoulder, trying to keep any hint of disdain from infiltrating his expression. “Just, this doesn’t seem like his sort of thing… that’s all.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre chuckled, clearly not convinced. “You always talk about the need to grow our numbers. And you never know…he might have some well-concealed enthusiasm about protecting the rights of refugees. You’re not really bothered he’s here, are you?”

“Of course not! I couldn’t care less.” Enjolras took a slow sip of his coffee and returned his gaze to the checklist resting in his other hand. “I simply don’t understand his motivation for attending. And it seems like he’s already causing a disruption.”

“We haven’t started the meeting yet,” Combeferre pointed out good-naturedly. “Everyone’s waiting, and last I read in the bylaws _you_ drafted, there’s nothing that prohibits pre-meeting conversing.”

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow in response but couldn’t stop his lips from twitching with a reluctant smile. “Fine.” Glancing down at his watch, he added, “Speaking of which, we do need to get started.”

Finishing the remains of his coffee in a final gulp, he stood up and moved to face the rows of desks half-filled with eager young college students. 

It didn’t take much for Enjolras to command a room. As soon as he stood in front of his peers, his hands gripping a stack of documents as they often were, a sort of palpable hush moved throughout the space.

Enjolras quickly filled the silence with a brief introduction before launching right into the items he’d included on the agenda and confirmed with Combeferre. He spoke of their growing presence on campus, their burgeoning network that contained not only other student groups with similar missions but also community organizations, and what sort of impact they could generate through those allegiances.

At various times, he called on other members to give reports or share updates from their subcommittees—a concept that had required a few weeks to take root as some students thought Enjolras was simply taking things “too seriously.” Enjolras was accustomed to that response from his peers. He simply stayed the course until proven right.

When Courfeyrac stood to talk about ongoing fundraising initiatives and budget developments, Enjolras had a moment to look around the room.

He took satisfaction in seeing a steady increase in attendance. More and more seats were filled with each meeting. It felt like a testament to his hard work, a confirmation he was on track and could maybe, eventually, do _enough_. _Be enough_. 

Despite the ache still subtly pressing at the back of his head, he was able to absorb Courfeyrac’s detailed report. He knew it was important to listen in earnest so he remained intimately acquainted with each aspect of the club’s operations. Yet something else was niggling for his attention.

When he could no longer quell the urge, he glanced once more in Grantaire’s direction. The shaggy head was bent over the desk. For a second that was alight with indignation, Enjolras thought the other young man had maybe fallen asleep. But the older student’s left hand was moving steadily, filling a blank sheet of paper with what looked to be rough charcoal sketches. A streak of vibrant yellow paint stretched across a bare forearm. A muscular forearm, Enjolras couldn’t help noticing.

As Grantaire tilted his head to get a different perspective on his drawing, the fluorescent light gracing the ceiling of the classroom caught on the metal ring in his nose. At the same moment, his tongue brushed over his lips, an involuntary movement that seemed to result from Grantaire concentrating hard on the “work” in front of him.

Enjolras sensed he was over-extending the length of his gaze. He knew it was indecent. _Stop staring_ , he chided himself, embarrassed to have to acknowledge he was doing so in the first place. He couldn’t understand why he was. And yet the fates seemed intent on punishing him for getting distracted for, just as he was about to turn his attention once more on Courfeyrac, the curly head was no longer bowed.

Instead, Enjolras was met with a pair of hazel eyes, lightly hooded but undeniably sharp. The corner of Grantaire’s mouth lifted, signifying his mockery or amusement or some dawning insight—Enjolras knew not which. He quickly averted his eyes away from the knowing grin but not before he caught sight of Grantaire giving him a hasty but deliberate wink.

An inexplicable surge of heat washed over Enjolras’ face. He didn’t know why. Nor could he explain the momentary loss of breath. And later that evening, as he worked on an assignment for his advanced calculus class, he experienced the disconcertion of having that image—Grantaire leaning over his desk, engrossed in his drawing, biting his lip in concentration—come unbidden to his mind.

Leaning back in his chair, Enjolras rubbed a hand over his weary face and ushered the unsettling visual right back out of his thoughts. “I need to get more sleep,” he grumbled.

* * *

The first time Enjolras met Grantaire was a little more than a year ago at an on-campus party. A freshman at the time, Enjolras found himself showing up to the event after perpetual insistence from his roommate, whom Enjolras was immediately drawn to, not to mention a bit of curiosity.

The site of the event—the dorm room of two upperclassmen—was dark and loud and already drenched in the smell of booze, sweat, and a cocktail of different colognes when Enjolras arrived. He wasted no time seeking out Combeferre’s towering form, but didn’t find him alone.

“Enje! You made it!” Combeferre was already nursing a drink, a sheen of sweat gracing his dark brow, but his smile wide and bright as ever.

Before Enjolras could respond with a quick, “Good to see you,” the other young man had pushed a paper cup of some unidentifiable liquid into Enjolras’ hand and then introduced him to the equally inebriated students who stood close by.

“Here, we have Marius,” he gestured toward a handsome young man who looked nearly as out of place as Enjolras felt, and then moved on to a stocky, confident lad perched on a nearby stool, “and Courfeyrac. He’s in our economics class! Just always in the back, and you sit up front and center, like the eager little academic you are,” Combeferre nudged Enjolras playfully before stating loudly, as if the realization had just dawned on him, “He’s also gay! Like you. But don’t get any ideas. He’s already taken.”

Enjolras’ face grew warm at Combeferre’s accidental indiscretion, his mild embarrassment turning to lashing humiliation when he saw the pretty girl sitting behind Combeferre flash a smirk at her equally pretty couch mate.

Sensing Enjolras’ gaze drifting toward the pair, Combeferre glanced around, still completely unaware he’d divulged somewhat personal information, and nearly shouted, “Oh! And that’s Eponine and Grantaire.”

Enjolras was prepared to dislike the raven-haired hipster based on the seemingly mocking glance she’d shared with what Enjolras could only assume was her boyfriend. But suddenly, she was standing, taking Enjolras’ hand, and smiling warmly.

“So nice to meet another new student.” Her liquid brown eyes turned mischievous as she stage-whispered, “And thank god, you seem more grounded than this sorry lot.”

Enjolras grinned despite himself. “If that’s the case, then we’re both lucky to have found one another.”

While the others laughed and expressed over-the-top indignation at Eponine’s light-hearted insult, Enjolras turned toward Grantaire, waiting for him to stand. However, the young man stayed in his lounging position, his arm slung over the back of the couch, and merely jerked his head in indifferent acknowledgement.

Enjolras was mildly affronted but didn’t have a chance to be too bothered, as he was quickly drawn into spirited conversation with the other students.

They drank freely and happily, except for Enjolras, who stealthily tipped back his cup time and again without letting the liquid slip through his lips. He found himself at ease in the discussion, which broached on topics he previously wouldn’t have hoped would surface at a raucous college party: environmental policy, the country’s upcoming mid-term elections, and even post-modern philosophy. Of course, there was also a harsh critique of their school football team’s embarrassing performance in a recent game. A young man named Jehan, who had joined their small group a little after Enjolras, was especially cutting and entertaining in his commentary.

An hour or so later, Enjolras felt himself surprisingly content and lacking in anxiety as he sank to a chair to get a few moments of quiet peace and solitude with his thoughts. He was midway through adding another task to the following day’s extensive to-do list, stored on his cellphone, when his reverie was broken.

“Well, you are _quite_ the pretty picture.”

The deep, confident voice alone would have disoriented Enjolras, but as he quickly looked up, it became increasingly evident that Grantaire was better-looking up close—standing over Enjolras with a smirk on his face—than he was when casually reclined on a polyester couch.

Caught off guard, Enjolras responded promptly with the first thing that came to mind. “Not quite as pretty as your girlfriend, though.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to one foot so his hip curved out, drawing attention to his well-formed legs that were currently clad in tight black jeans. He brought a bottle of beer to his mouth, muttering softly, “And they told me you were quick-witted,” before taking a swig.

Enjolras scoffed, further disoriented when Grantaire, either ignoring or dismissing his indignation, pulled a chair closer and sat down.

“So, Enjolras was it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a freshman?”

Enjolras nodded, suddenly wishing he had a beverage he was actually drinking so he could focus on something other than the strangely enticing contour of Grantaire’s lips. “And you?”

“I’m a junior. But transferred here from community college this year, so nearly as green as you are…well, only in certain ways, I imagine.”

Enjolras didn’t know whether the glint in those hazel eyes was suggestive, or if he was simply terrible at dissecting this type of social encounter. He assumed it was the latter and opted to flatly ignore the comment. “And what do you study?”

“Should have seen that question coming. You look as if you would be inordinately obsessed with other people’s chosen education tracks. Just like my dreadfully boring Uncle Earl.”

Enjolras didn’t appreciate being made fun of, and he responded in the only way he knew how: with passionate and equally sardonic retorts. “Well, education is important to _most_ people. It only stands to reason one would ask questions of a new acquaintance on a topic of such pervasive significance. Unless said acquaintance is an imbecile.”

Grantaire tossed back his head with a laugh.

 _What the fuck?_ Enjolras was a bit out of his element and totally not okay with that dynamic.

“Alright, Apollo, if knowing what I study at college somehow makes you feel like you _know_ me… I’m an art major.”

“Enjolras,” the young man corrected automatically. “Any particular specialty, _Grantaire_? Favorite medium?”

Grantaire shrugged, finally looking as uncomfortable with a line of questioning as Enjolras was with the entire discourse and Grantaire’s unreadable manner. “Doesn’t matter. Art is about experimentation. Pushing your limits and letting yourself be overtaken by a new sensation, a new connection. I don’t limit myself. I enjoy experiencing new things, no matter where they take me.”

After a moment, during which Grantaire sipped his beer and Enjolras tried to think of a way out of the conversation, the brunet asked with the markings of a taunt scratched on his words, “And you? What are dear daddy and mummy forcing you to study?”

Enjolras’ mother had passed away years ago and he wasn’t on the best terms with his father. Neither of these were things he felt like sharing, but they triggered a sort of angry force in his voice when he responded curtly, “Political science.”

“Ah,” Grantaire grinned, running a hand through his messy curls. “Makes perfect sense. Planning to be a fancy lawyer or powerful politician, no doubt?”

“Actually,” Enjolras huffed, ignoring the way the rich brown locks simply flopped back into place across Grantaire’s forehead, “I want to be a civil rights activist. Potentially work for the ACLU, or another nonprofit organization. Maybe I’ll start my own.”

“I see.” Something sharp and indiscernible passed through Grantaire’s eyes as he nodded slowly, meanwhile perusing Enjolras, from his clean black Converse to his fitted, dark-wash jeans and immaculate hair. “Planning to save the world, are you?”

“Something like that,” Enjolras straightened in his chair, emboldened by his burgeoning anger.

Once again, Grantaire merely laughed, but this time, it seemed rougher, less amicable.

“And that’s amusing, why?” Enjolras questioned harshly, his eyes now fixed on Grantaire, eyebrows arched and chin lifted defiantly.

“Nothing,” Grantaire continued chuckling. He wiped a thumb over the corner of his mouth and Enjolras refused the urge to follow the movement. “I’m always amused by your type.”

“My…type?”

“No need to get offended,” Grantaire shrugged again, clearly not realizing how upset Enjolras was growing—or simply not caring. “It’s adorable, actually. A privileged blueblood who can afford to have lofty goals of saving the poor, miserable working class because failure means nothing more than going back home and living off the ol’ trust fund. Protected by privilege, nothing to risk.”

“You have no _fucking_ clue what you are talking about.” Enjolras spat out the words, slowly, softly, his eyes now glued on Grantaire’s, which sparkled with mirth. 

Rather than backing down, however, the brunet merely cocked his head and pursed his lips. “Oh, is that so? Well, then… whatever you say. But tell me, Enjolras, what other ‘misguided theories’ can I make about you and your self-righteous vision?” He turned toward the sound of a merry shout, loud enough to make its way across the crowded room, and added nonchalantly, as if it was nothing more than an inconsequential after-thought, “It’s just that you’re all the more captivating with that brush of rose on your cheeks.”

Years of experience in policy debate didn’t fail Enjolras and a dozen snappy comebacks played like reels in his mind. Any one of them would suffice in cleverly shutting Grantaire down. Any one of them would restore natural equilibrium and give Enjolras the upper-hand he was so accustomed to. Any one of them. And yet...

“Fuck you.”

With that, he swooped to his feet and started toward the door in a single, smooth motion, pushing past the messy throng of intoxicated college students and not bothering to look back to see whether the smirk on Grantaire’s lips ever faltered.

* * *

It had been more than a year since that encounter. Enjolras had made sure to never get stuck in a one-on-one encounter with Grantaire again. Of course, it was inevitable that they should occasionally see each other. They ran in the same general friend group, so at times they were both present at various sporting events and get-togethers. Combeferre and Enjolras periodically stopped to grab coffee from the café on campus, only to find Grantaire and Eponine already seated at a table spread with textbooks that were often being ignored in favor of Grantaire sketching or painting and Eponine keeping him engaged by practicing her lines for a play. Upon such occasions, Enjolras always discreetly massaged the situation to ensure he and his roommate did not join them.

This strategy of avoidance had worked out well for nearly three semesters. After all, the two young men didn’t have classes together, both because of their different grades and different majors. And there were countless programs and activities that consumed Enjolras’ time and were decidedly Grantaire-free: The debate team, French club, student government, and contributing to the school’s student-run _Journal of Politics and International Affairs_. All of these things kept Enjolras busy as an ambitious freshman.

Then, during the summer leading up to his sophomore year, he became obsessed with the idea of establishing a more activist-style group to take on some of the prominent civil rights issues inflicting the New York area and the country at large. He was ready to _do_ more, to turn words into action.

Combeferre, of course, was right there to help Enjolras as soon as he pitched the idea. He proved a valuable asset from the start, at times tempering Enjolras’ more radical, idealistic visions and goals with much-needed realism.

It had taken hard work to get the group officially established. Fortunately, Enjolras had constructed quite the reputation for himself, which gave him sway with the administration. With the additional help of Courfeyrac, easily the most winsome and good-humored of the three when it came to wooing fellow students, their little group had steadily expanded.

By the end of October, there were at least two dozen members, and it was Enjolras’ favorite place to be. It gave him a purpose, a passion, and a challenge all at once. For the most part, these were students who at least marginally understood Enjolras and weren’t completely put off by his intensity and workaholic tendencies. They even managed to have some fun—at Courfeyrac’s insistence, of course—going out to eat after meetings or doing the occasional game night. It all felt safe and right to Enjolras.

Now, that was all changed. His sanctuary has been infiltrated. By a blasphemer, no less. Someone who spent the duration of each meeting consumed with drawing. Someone who, as far as Enjolras could tell, thought him completely ridiculous, bordering on zealous.

Grantaire has never _explicitly_ said as much, Enjolras had to admit, but if their initial conversation was any indication, Grantaire saw Enjolras as a rich pretty-boy with a savior complex. _None of which is true_ , he reminded himself.

But during the three subsequent meetings Grantaire had so far attended, the sight of those hazel eyes, the thick dark hair, the combat boots, and that god-damn nose ring somehow chipped at Enjolras’ confident resolve. He’d never admit it, and he could maintain a poised and polished outward appearance as well as the next person.

But he couldn’t help wondering how he looked through Grantaire’s eyes. Did he really come across as foppish and privileged as the older student had made him out to be last year? Could he prove Grantaire wrong? And why the hell did he even care?

Nonetheless, as Enjolras laid in bed after the fourth consecutive meeting tainted by Grantaire’s participation, these were the thoughts once again rolling around in his head. Well, these and the image of Grantaire wearing ridiculously tight jeans once again. Only this pair had various rips and snags running down the legs, showing off bits of the pale skin beneath.

 _Why would anyone wear those?_ Enjolras wondered. _They can’t possibly be comfortable. How does he even sit?_

Sure, they hugged the long, muscular planes of Grantaire’s thighs in a pleasant way. And his ass. Enjolras blushed at the thought, but honestly, how could one _not_ notice Grantaire’s thick yet toned ass when it was _right there_? Every contour displayed and perfected by the unforgiving stricture of those jeans?

Enjolras’ blush deepened when he realized his hand had crept down, of its own volition, and his thumb was caressing the semi-hard length of his cock through his basketball shorts.

Swearing and thanking every known deity that Combeferre was not in the dorm room, Enjolras yanked his hand away.

_Enough of that._

Flustered and annoyed with himself, he leaned over to his nightstand and grabbed his laptop. Surely there was some project he could be working on. Cutting cards for debate. Emailing the city’s economic developer about a potential summer internship. Working on his paper for global affairs class.

He didn’t have time for this, for hurriedly tossing off under the covers like a randy teenager. And he certainly didn’t plan to do so while gratuitous visions of Grantaire penetrated his thoughts.


	2. Red and Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very new experience for me, both writing Enjoltaire and writing an AU. Normally, no matter what fandom I'm targeting, I exclusively do canon-compliant works. But I realized before starting that if I tried to do that with this story, when I've never actually read Les Miserables (only seen the play and movie) and I don't know a ton about 19th-century French society, that I'd get so stressed with fact-checking that I'd probably end up deserting the fic prematurely. So I'm going in a different direction. Please forgive any character discrepancies. We're all just here to have fun, right :)?

“You’re sure you can’t get out of it?” Enjolras asked for a third time.

Combeferre looked regretful but shook his head. “It’s part of a practicum that’s required for graduation.”

“But you would just be missing one session on a Saturday, out of the whole semester!” As soon as Enjolras spoke, he regretted his words. He knew that he himself would never deprioritize a project related to his education—not even for something as important as their civil rights rally. It wasn’t alright asking someone else to do it.

Combeferre seemed to rightly interpret Enjolras’ silence as him rescinding his plea, for he simply said again, “I’m sorry, Enje.”

Enjolras responded with a small smile, massaging his creased brow with the pads of his fingers. “Don’t worry about it, Ferre. I know important things can come up last-minute. And you won’t miss the whole thing. I’m just not sure how I’ll get there early to set everything up and to make sure there aren’t any last-minute, unexpected complications…”

Combeferre’s face lit up. “I’ve already thought that through and made arrangements!”

“Oh?” Enjolras perked up. But when Combeferre pointedly dropped his gaze, focusing instead on playing with the fraying edge of his flannel shirt, Enjolras’ optimism faltered. “What arrangements?”

“Alright, here’s the thing,” Combeferre looked up, his face set with the determination he often needed when dealing with his inherently impassioned friend. “You don’t have a car. And you don’t want to tote all your supplies and boxes of pamphlets on the subway, do you? No. That’s what I thought.”

Enjolras chuckled and lifted his hand to interrupt Combeferre’s rambling speech. “Ferre. Just tell me what’s going on. I’m grateful you even went to the trouble.”

“Well… Grantaire offered to give you a ride.”

For one of the few times in his life, Enjolras felt his jaw drop. After a long second, he asked, “Are you joking?”

“No, unfortunately not.” Before Enjolras could further protest, Combeferre added hurriedly, “I was asking Courfeyrac if he could drive you, and Grantaire was standing right there. He jumped in, said he can borrow his roommate’s car and he doesn’t mind doing it. What was I supposed to say, Enje? ‘Sorry, but no. Enjolras hates your guts.’”

“I don’t _hate_ him,” Enjolras grumbled. “I save that level of energy for things like white supremacy, and ICE, and Lindsey Graham.”

Combeferre acknowledged his friend’s witticism with an appreciative grin but continued. “It’s one car drive. A half-hour of your life. An hour tops. You can behave yourself for a half-hour, can’t you?”

Enjolras shot Combeferre an incredulous look. “If you’ll remember correctly, _he_ was the one who insulted me, Ferre! And based entirely on misguided, prejudiced assumptions.”

“He _was_ fairly wasted that night. And that was more than a year ago!” Combeferre responded, though his tone was softer.

“Yes,” Enjolras said with an emphatic nod, “so, he’s had an entire year to apologize. And has he done that?”

“Well, Enje,” Combeferre knew he was treading on thin ice now, but he cautiously advanced nonetheless, “You haven’t exactly given him a chance. You’ll barely acknowledge him when we’re all hanging out. And—you know I love you, Enje—but you can come across like a bit of a,” he stopped to clear his throat guiltily, “a haughty wise-ass? Not with me, of course! Or people you care about. But…when you’re pissed about something.”

Enjolras was a logical person. He knew the truth of what Combeferre was saying—even the “haughty wise-ass” part. But it didn’t mean he liked hearing it. Especially right now, when he had loads of homework to do and he was preparing to oversee a rally for college students coming from across the region the next morning. And he’d just been told pre-fixed plans made weeks ago were no longer feasible, something he never accepted well.

He sat silently for a minute, pressing his lips together and willing himself not to utter a rude retort.

Combeferre, ever the peace-maker, nudged his friend. When Enjolras turned toward him, he was wearing the saccharine grin that had worked wonders on many a coed in the past. “Would it help if I were to buy you a mocha right now?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and bit back a smile. “Maybe,” he conceded. “… With whipped cream.”

“But of course,” Combeferre spread his hands wide. “Is there any other way to enjoy a mocha?”

“Let’s go,” Enjolras sighed, slipping his book bag over his shoulder and heading toward the door. He stopped to hold it open for Combeferre. “But I’m getting a large.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

* * *

And that was how Enjolras found himself standing outside at 9 o’clock on a chilly mid-November morning, his breath captured as translucent white wisps in the air and his hands wrapped around a tumbler of hot tea, waiting for Grantaire to parallel park.

His navy blue peacoat kept him warm enough, although he’d forgotten gloves and was happy for the heat emanating from the beverage in his hands. When Grantaire finally stopped the vehicle, Enjolras set down the tumbler to pick up a box full of badges and papers instead.

“Here,” said Grantaire, walking around the front of the worn-down and unappealingly beige Ford Taurus. He held out his arms, causing the leather of his jacket to stretch taut across his broad shoulders. “Let me help you with that.”

“I’ve got it,” Enjolras responded shortly.

“Of course you do.” Without pausing, Grantaire lifted the box from Enjolras’ grasp. “Grab the door, would you?”

“You could have done that yourself, and let me put the box inside,” Enjolras pointed out. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying a heavy object. Believe it or not, I haven’t actually lived my life with _servants_ doing my heavy-lifting for me.”

Grantaire merely grinned, revealing a set of even white teeth that contrasted nicely with his soft pink lips, made all the more vibrant by the chill of a late fall morning in New York City. Enjolras opened the backdoor as requested, and the two young men quickly stowed away the signs, boxes, and simple sound equipment Enjolras had compiled.

As they finished, Grantaire opened the passenger door for Enjolras, although he didn’t wait around for the other student’s quizzical, “Thanks?”

The passenger’s seat was covered in notebooks and papers. Enjolras would have assumed they were Grantaire’s roommate’s, except there was a wide range of mismatched art supplies in the mix. Enjolras lifted the majority of the pile into his lap as he climbed into the car.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Sorry about that.” The engine roared to life and a welcome stream of heat slowly spilled into the cabin. “I came straight from the studio. You can throw those into the back.”

Enjolras was just about to do so when something caught his eye. One of the sketchbooks was opened to a page with an incredibly intricate and eye-catching logo of deep crimson with dramatic, black detailing. The words “Friends of the ABC” were boldly intertwined into the design.

“What’s this?” He asked before he could stop to wonder if he was being too nosy.

“Oh,” Grantaire swallowed, quickly glancing at the object in question and then returning his attention to maneuver down the hectic city street. “That’s actually something I was working on…. Well, for you. I mean,” he corrected himself quickly, “for the organization. If you need it. It’s just, I haven’t seen you include a logo on anything, and I wondered if you had one.”

Enjolras felt himself at a momentary loss for words. This simply didn’t compute.

“If you don’t like it, though,” Grantaire finished with a shrug, once more assuming the garb of disinterest he so often wore.

“I do like it.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, concealing Enjolras’ absolute delight in the striking visual Grantaire had created. “’Friends of the ABC’?”

“Another random idea,” Grantaire supplied, resting his elbow on the window frame and relaxing in his seat as they made their way down a noticeably calmer side-street. “Sort of a joke, actually. _Abaissés_ means ‘the lowly’ or ‘disadvantaged’ in—”

“In French,” Enjolras supplied automatically. “So… a pun?”

“Like I said, it’s a draft,” Grantaire chuckled, brushing the curls from his forehead. It was an unconscious habit of his, Enjolras had noticed. “I needed to include some wording to get the dimensions right. And that’s what first came to mind. But, of course, ‘Enjolras’ Cadre of Noble, Well-Meaning, and Mostly Woke Activists Who Want to Save the World’ also has a nice ring to it.”

“This club is not about me,” Enjolras started emphatically explaining. Then he saw the corner of Grantaire’s mouth twist upward and realized he was joking. For some reason, it didn’t provoke irritation or make Enjolras feel defensive. He merely rolled his eyes and rested his head on the back of the threadbare cloth seat. “I don’t think that name would fit well on a pamphlet, catchy as it is.”

He realized he was still holding onto Grantaire’s sketchpad and it made him curious what else was contained in the pages. If the other drawings and paintings were anything as accomplished as this marvelous logo mock-up, Enjolras had to admit he was enticed.

Just as he was about to turn to the next page, however, Grantaire looked over. His eyes went wide and, in a flash, he’d grabbed the sketchpad from Enjolras’ hands and chucked it behind him into the rear seat.

Taken aback, Enjolras slowly turned his gaze on the brunet, only to find he looked almost bashful. Now there was a sight unprecedented in Enjolras’ experience. “Well, alright then,” he said simply.

Grantaire awkwardly cleared his throat and readjusted his posture, deliberately not returning Enjolras’ stare. “The rest of the pages are blank.”

That was clearly not true, and Enjolras was overwhelmingly intrigued. If he was actually friends with the other young man, he might have pressed the issue. As it was, he suddenly remembered that they technically didn’t like each other, and he let the confusing experience fade into silence.

After a few moments, Enjolras noticed his hands were still a bit chilled. He went to reach for his tea when he realized it was sitting on the base of a cold, concrete pillar outside the Bobst Library where he’d set it down. “Shit,” he murmured.

Grantaire finally dared to look in his direction. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” Enjolras said, but Grantaire raised his eyebrows, nonverbally reiterating the question. Enjolras brushed the matter away with a slight wave of his hand. “Nothing important. I forgot my drink outside the library.”

“Your drink… as in, coffee?”

“No,” Enjolras answered with light-hearted sarcasm, “I was chugging an entire tumblerful of liquor ahead of a keystone event for our organization.”

Grantaire chuckled, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Whiskey can do wonders in warming you up.”

“For speaking or against the cold?”

“Both,” Grantaire acknowledged nonchalantly. As he took an unexpected detour down a road Enjolras knew was not the right one, a look of pure amusement slowly spread over his face. “I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind seeing you give one of your heartfelt speeches after imbibing on a glassful of hard liquor.”

Enjolras shook his head at the absurd thought.

“No doubt,” Grantaire continued, his tone still joking but also colored by something Enjolras could have mistaken for admiration, “You, of all people, would somehow manage to be just as charismatic and eloquent as ever, even smashed out of your mind.”

Enjolras felt surprisingly pleased and embarrassed. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he disagreed half-heartedly, turning to look out the window and hoping to hide his blush in the process. Suddenly, Grantaire was pulling into an empty parking spot, and they weren’t at the rally site, Enjolras realized. “Where are we?”

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire flashed him a reassuring smile. Enjolras had to swallow the catch in his throat, because there was something glorious and disarming and confusing about being on the receiving end of that look. “We still have a bit of time. The rally doesn’t even start until 11. We need to get you a drink.”

Enjolras gave Grantaire a skeptical look. “We’re not still talking about alcohol, are we? Because, regardless of your surprising faith in my abilities, I’d like to be in full control of my mental faculties for this event.”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire sighed with exasperation, but his infectious smile remained solidly in place. “There’s an excellent coffee shop just around the corner. We must get you hot tea or coffee or whatever the hell you want.”

He opened the car door and started stepping out, throwing back over his shoulder, “Nothing that could impair your ‘mental faculties.’”

* * *

Enjolras learned a couple other notable things during the short remainder of his drive with Grantaire:

1\. Grantaire and Eponine were not dating, and Enjolras began to wonder if they ever had been. Come to think of it, even though they almost invariably sat together during social gatherings and arrived and left with one another, Enjolras had actually never observed them being affectionate or calling each other pet names. Plus, it didn’t make sense they could still be so close if they suffered a painful breakup at some point.

2\. Grantaire was maybe more interested in the organization and its mission than he tended to show, and he _maybe_ wasn’t just showing up to meetings to take the piss out of Enjolras. First of all, the logo. Which Enjolras still hadn’t quite processed. But also, though Grantaire feigned indifference, the questions he asked Enjolras were too intricate, too pointed and precise to make him fully believe Grantaire hadn’t been paying more attention than he let on.

3\. Grantaire had some of the _worst_ road rage Enjolras had ever witnessed. Seriously. Enjolras knew he could be liberal with swear words at times, but it was nothing compared to what spewed out of Grantaire’s mouth as they zipped through the city, racing red lights, getting cut off, and dealing with pedestrians—all the urban norms. Enjolras almost found it amusing that Grantaire became more visibly disgruntled by the random driver who didn’t use their turn-signal than he had about any other topic they ever discussed. And that included the abomination that was unbridled, modern-day capitalism. It made Enjolras curious what else Grantaire might keep hidden beneath the surface.

A few times during the drive, Enjolras thought he might bring up the unpleasant incident that happened at the party. But it felt like an incredibly awkward topic to introduce into their conversation.

 _Remember that once when you painted me in the most unflattering light possible? Basically insinuating I’m a self-righteous fraud who’s only moonlighting as an activist while I wait for that trust fund to kick in? Did you mean to say all that or….?_ It seemed like a non-starter. Fortunately, it wasn’t like the discussion _needed_ to happen in order for them to not bite each other’s heads off in the roughly 45 minutes they were alone together.

All in all, what with the success of the rally and the surprisingly-not-horrible nature of his drive with Grantaire, Enjolras was in a fairly good mood that afternoon. He felt emboldened and empowered. Now that this first event was over and had gone without a hitch, it established a new wave of momentum and sparked a dozen ideas—which, of course, Enjolras felt the urge to act on right away.

However, Enjolras being immersed in building a spreadsheet, with his headphones securely in place and blasting Muse, didn’t stop Combeferre from plopping down beside him on his bed when the other student arrived back to their dorm a few hours later. Startled, Enjolras quickly paused his music and looked up expectantly.

That’s when he realized Combeferre was wearing a particularly self-pleased, even smug, expression. Enjolras’ own countenance turned inquisitive.

“Well, well, well,” Combeferre made a big deal out of casually lacing his fingers together and stretching his arms out in front of him. “It sounds like someone was right. That _someone_ being me, of course.”

Enjolras had a strong suspicion he knew what Combeferre was referring to, but he wasn’t going to concede that easily. He arched an eyebrow and said flatly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Combeferre cocked his head as if to say, _Really?_ When Enjolras remained silent, he merely grinned and explained, “Only that you are, _shockingly_ , still alive and well, all in one piece, with no serious psychological damage, after hanging out with Grantaire. How is this possible? Someone alert the press! The world is obviously ending.”

“What gave you that impression?” Enjolras sneered back before Combeferre could get too engrossed in his mocking dramatization. “How could you possibly know what I did or did not suffer?”

Combeferre’s dark brown eyes observed Enjolras playfully, but it also seemed as if he was trying to uncover some deeper implication. “Hmm, I have my sources. But then, Grantaire is quite the scoundrel, isn’t he? He could have been totally, blatantly lying when he was talking about you!”

Enjolras felt a weird coiling in his belly. “About me?” he asked, hoping he sounded as casual as he desired. “What did he say?”

Inexplicably, and almost unnoticeably, Combeferre hesitated a brief second before clarifying with another mischievous grin, “Well, not _you_ specifically—seriously, Enje, egotistical much?—but just the experience in general. He said you all barely argued. And you amicably drank tea together. And he only _twice_ felt like slapping you for having a holier-than-thou attitude, but he found the strength to refrain because your face is—how did he describe it?—Oh yes, ‘the work of a thousand angels determined to fashion an image that rivals the magnificent heavens above’.”

Now Enjolras was certain Combeferre was just being a wanker and he communicated as much by not-so-lightly shoving him so he nearly slipped off the bed. It was unconscionable Grantaire would be so effusive and complimentary about Enjolras when they decidedly did not get along. Although, the first sentence Grantaire spoke to him had included the words “pretty picture,” but he was trying to taunt Enjolras at the time, wasn’t he? 

“This is a ridiculous conversation,” Enjolras stated decisively as Combeferre scrambled back onto the plush mattress with an affronted look plastered on his face. Enjolras did not like how his body was responding to the idea of Grantaire describing him as attractive in any way, shape or form. Nor how he was responding to the idea of Grantaire slapping his face. _What the hell is that about?_

Pulling his laptop closer to his stomach to conceal the physical evidence of his shameful arousal, Enjolras quickly introduced a change of subject. “And what about you?”

“’What about _me_?’” Combeferre repeated, grinning. “Sorry, Enje, but I would describe you simply as ‘A Solid 9.’ But your mind is definitely a 10.”

Enjolras cast him an unamused side-eye. “Good god. That is _not_ what I was talking about.”

“Are you asking me about who I’m attracted to?” Combeferre questioned incredulously. “Has our friendship reached that level? I mean, you are intimately acquainted with every single one of my socio-political views, but this… This is new territory.”

“I talk about normal, college-esque subjects sometimes!” Enjolras objected with a huff.

“You also use words like ‘college-esque,’” Combeferre pointed out before pausing to actually consider the matter at hand. “I’m not seeing anyone. As I’m sure you’ve noticed. It’s difficult to find the time with everything else we’ve got going on. I mean, you know all about that.”

“And no one you’re interested in?” Enjolras prodded, now actually curious.

Combeferre looked down, scratching the back of his neck, and that was the equivalent of a definitive answer. However, Enjolras waited patiently to see if his friend would disclose more.

At last, Combeferre sighed, glanced at Enjolras to ascertain whether his interest was genuine or not, and then confessed, “Alright. Don’t say anything to anyone, because it’s _nothing_ at this point. I just think… well, she’s gorgeous, first of all. And really witty and independent and talented. But… I guess I wouldn’t mind getting to know her better.”

Enjolras laughed, delighted to see Combeferre tongue-tied for once. “Who is it?”

“Promise not to say anything to anyone?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes but nodded resolutely.

“It’s Eponine.”


	3. Les Amis

Now Enjolras was in a bind. As a good friend, he wanted to help support and facilitate as much interaction as possible between Combeferre and Eponine. But that, of course, was accompanied by one major drawback: Being around Eponine often meant being around Grantaire. And Enjolras still wasn’t certain where they stood—if they were “friends,” or if they could be friends, or even indifferent acquaintances, with how dissimilar they were.

And yet, they were establishing as good of a pretense as could be expected under the circumstances. If Combeferre and Enjolras saw the pair out and about on campus, they’d now stop for a quick chat. Combeferre would talk to Eponine and Eponine would talk to Combeferre, and Eponine would talk to Enjolras and Combeferre would talk to Grantaire. And Grantaire and Enjolras would pass but a handful of words between each other while their friends didn’t seem to notice or care.

It was a fine system, and Grantaire didn’t pose any questions as to why these duo friendships were suddenly crossing paths more often. Enjolras suspected Grantaire already knew the reason. After all, Combeferre was about as subtle as a thunderstorm. Enjolras was fairly convinced the words “cunning” and “coy” were not in his vocabulary.

However, Eponine didn’t seem to mind this obviously coordinated dance toward becoming closer acquaintances. In fact, little by little, day by day, she responded in kind, initiating the greetings when they passed each other in the hall, or wandering close enough to seamlessly merge into the conversations that customarily percolated after meetings.

Finally, after nearly three weeks, it got to the point where Eponine, trailed by Grantaire, approached them in the campus coffee shop, where Enjolras and Combeferre had secured a table amid the early afternoon rush and quickly covered it with books, papers and writing utensils. The young men were using the hour before their Business Law class to study intensely for end-of-term finals.

Enjolras couldn’t believe it was already the beginning of December. The year had progressed not so much like a wave as a tsunami. And yet, there was a myriad of things left to do before winter break, creating a suffocating grip of pressure that never seemed to lessen. Fortunately, Enjolras thrived in an environment fraught with perpetual, low-grade stress.

He was switching back and forth between answering emails and looking over his scratchy handwritten notes when Eponine’s cheerful voice interrupted his focus.

“Mind if we join you?”

“Of course not!” Combeferre responded promptly, shuffling his books and laptop to make room for Eponine. Grantaire pulled out the chair beside Enjolras and sat down, giving him a small smile as he did. His cheeks were pink and there were a few glistening water droplets clinging to his hair that Enjolras assumed were remnants of snowflakes carried in from outside, where the campus was gently receiving a blanket of white.

Enjolras acknowledged him with a nod, quickly adjusting in his chair when Grantaire’s knee brushed against his thigh.

“Thanks! All the other tables were full,” said Eponine, removing the lid from her coffee cup. She brought it up to her face, closing her eyes and pausing a moment to breathe in the thin pillars of steam, before taking a sip. Enjolras glanced at Combeferre to see him blatantly staring, and he had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling. When Combeferre noticed Enjolras bemusedly watching him watch Eponine, he gave him a look that basically equated a middle finger but still turned discreetly back toward his open textbook.

“Finals?” Eponine asked, keeping her hands clasped on her cup.

Combeferre nodded, “Business Law. Have you started yours yet?”

“A few,” Eponine said. “For one of them, my participation in _Into the Woods_ accounts for, like, a majority of my grade. I don’t think they’re even planning to evaluate our actual performances based on the rubric, though. Might as well be an end-of-the-year holiday program put on by a bunch of kindergarteners. If you’re in the musical, you basically get an ‘A’.”

“ _Into the Woods_?” Enjolras asked. Come to think of it, he had overheard someone talking about the theater department’s winter production, or maybe he’d seen a flyer somewhere.

“Nina is absolutely amazing as the witch!” Grantaire was beaming proudly at his friend, and Enjolras found it curiously endearing. “You wouldn’t believe how fast and flawlessly she can rap. Next thing you know, she’ll be gender-bending as Hamilton.”

Eponine bit her lip with pleasure and embarrassment, dismissively stating, “I come from a family of performers.” Combeferre busied himself looking impressed and intrigued—all the perfunctory reactions to learning something new about one’s crush—while Enjolras asked, “You’ve seen the show?”

“Not officially, no,” Grantaire twisted the wooden stir stick in his coffee. Enjolras noticed a large smudge of charcoal along the side of his thumb. “Nina snuck me in for their final dress rehearsal yesterday. It actually looked halfway decent.”

Eponine scoffed and Grantaire gave her a wink before adding, “They open tonight, so of course, I’ll be going.”

“And bringing a bouquet, right?” Eponine asked with mock seriousness, before explaining for Combeferre and Enjolras' benefit, “R always does. For _every_ single show I’ve been in since we met in middle school. He comes to opening night and brings me flowers. Except that once.”

If Combeferre was the least bit bothered or jealous, he didn’t show it. He merely asked with interest, “What happened ‘that once’?”

Eponine hesitated, glancing over at Grantaire as if to get his permission. He merely shrugged, evidently not caring much at all, as was his modus operandi, so she elaborated. “During our senior year of high school, I landed the role of Sally Bowles in _Cabaret._ It was opening night, and I was so scared and so excited and so hyped up. Pretty sure I almost passed out backstage trying to put on my nylons. I was used to R texting me before shows, and he didn’t that day. I felt a little disoriented, but I didn’t think much about it. Wasn’t much I could do anyway. So, we performed the show.”

“And she kicked ass—allegedly,” Grantaire interjected. “I can neither confirm nor deny that self-evaluation.”

“Because you weren’t there,” Eponine reminded him in a snarky voice. She took another drink of her milk-saturated espresso and then continued, “Come to find out, he was drunk out of his mind. So drunk, he couldn’t find his way to the high school auditorium. And how did I find that out, you ask? After spending my post-production euphoria texting him repeatedly, getting no reply, and then panicking like hell, I finally went over to his house. Found him nearly passed out in his yard.”

Enjolras couldn’t help thinking that based on what he knew of Grantaire, that sounded about right, but he refrained from saying as much.

“Pretty sure you saved my life,” Grantaire chuckled, but there was an edge to it that matched the flame of contempt growing in Eponine’s eyes. “It was December. In Chicago.”

“And pretty sure you saved me from serving some serious prison time.”

The pair shared a slightly acerbic laugh, which made Enjolras assume there was more to the story. Combeferre must have also been thinking as much, as his brows knitted together at her comment. “How do you mean? What happened?”

“Well,” Eponine sighed, speaking a bit more hesitantly now and feeding Enjolras’ growing curiosity when she once again glanced at Grantaire to get his unspoken permission before proceeding, “When I found out the _reason_ he was slobbering drunk, and outside, I _might_ have been struck with the impulse to hunt down the person responsible and send him gentle into that dark night…or not so gently. Violently. And painfully.”

Enjolras was fully engrossed now and about to ask another question when Eponine glanced down at her phone and whispered, “shit,” before tossing back the rest of her coffee and standing up abruptly.

“I better get going. We have a lot to run through before tonight,” she hurriedly shoved a lone textbook into her over-stuffed canvas bag. “R can tell you the rest of that story if he wants.”

Grantaire didn’t look bothered but he was leisurely moving to feet as well. “Ah, alas! Might have to save that brilliantly rousing drama for another time. I want to squeeze in a few more hours at the studio before tonight.”

Eponine was slinging her bag over her shoulder and pushing in her chair when Combeferre seemed to finally locate his tongue. “You know, maybe we’ll come tonight too!”

While Enjolras willed himself not to peer indignantly at his friend for the use of “we,” Eponine paused and a flash of obvious pleasure passed over her face. Her eyes were on Combeferre and her cheeks slightly flushed when she responded, “Yeah, that’d be great. I’d like that.”

As sickeningly adorable and discomfort-inducing as their gaze was, it was Grantaire casting his face down while looking mildly gratified that drew Enjolras’ attention. Enjolras couldn’t pinpoint the source of Grantaire’s satisfaction, whether the young man was merely pleased for his friend or something less obvious.

This was a regular occurrence that irritated Enjolras to no end: the way thin, fleeting wisps of emotions would weave their way through Grantaire’s countenance, departing nearly as quickly and unexpectedly as they arrived, passing unnoticed except to the poignantly attentive observer. What were the thoughts behind the shrewd twist of his lips and raised eyebrows, behind the quiet laughs, the bitten lips and blazing eyes? Enjolras imagined there were wildly significant and specific reflections connected to every single one of Grantaire’s myriad of delicate expressions but the words he spoke all wove themselves into one disingenuous frock of not giving a fuck about anything.

“You’ll be there, too?”

The question brought Enjolras back to the present.

“Sure,” he responded before he could stop to decide if it was true.

“Of course he will,” Combeferre confirmed with an air of finality. “We’re always down to support our friends!”

“You know,” Grantaire said, slightly leaning in Enjolras’ direction, his eyes sparkling coyly, “You won’t get extra credit for attending. Or a positive referral for an internship. Or a chance to impress your peers with your cutting wit and profound knowledge of obscure French literature.”

“I get it. Thank you,” Enjolras answered drily. He hoped he appeared less amused than he felt.

“Well, then,” Grantaire smirked, pretending to look taken aback, “we’ll get to see what Enjolras looks like when he’s doing something just for fun—or, more precisely, when he’s not being graded. What a rare treat that will be.”

“And to think you’re the lucky one holding the fork.” The wry response elicited a genuine smile from Grantaire and Enjolras discovered himself smiling in return.

As soon as the two had departed, Combeferre turned to Enjolras, an apology already tripping from his lips. “I know. I owe you. Big time. But I really appreciate it. This is huge,” he took a break from expressing remorse to grin widely, “and I think…maybe…but I’ll make it up to you, I swear, Enje.”

Enjolras simply shrugged.

He had not expected to spend two hours of his evening watching a collegiate production of _Into the Woods_. Certainly, there were more productive things he could be doing with that time than playing audience to other students singing about beans and towers and agony and whatever other topics Enjolras couldn’t remember from viewing the musical once in his teens.

But, to his surprise, when he assured Combeferre, “It’s really okay. You don’t owe me anything,” it dawned on him that he really meant it.

* * *

Enjolras and Combeferre showed up, as promised, to the Frederick Loewe Theatre at 6:37, purchased tickets and took their seats among a respectable-sized crowd buzzing with palpable excitement. Enjolras saw a fair number of flowers and other gifts for the cast and crew tucked beneath seats and in the arms of what were likely family members and significant others. When Grantaire arrived, merely a minute before they lowered the house lights, he slid into the seat beside Combeferre. As promised, he was also carrying a bouquet—some large, elegant arrangement of burgundy dahlias, white roses and rustic greens.

Enjolras hadn’t been to a play—or really any type of performing arts production—in years. He wondered if that might have been different if his family life wasn’t unexpectedly and painfully turned inside out when he was 12. But the show was actually entertaining. Very entertaining. As Grantaire had claimed, Eponine was exceptional, embodying a masterful sense of comedic timing and effectively stealing the show.

Enjolras felt a bit sheepish he didn’t even know she was a musical theater major, let alone that she possessed genuine talent for it. Maybe he got a little tunnel-visioned sometimes, only conceptualizing and evaluating people as they related to the activities he participated in or organized.

 _That’s probably something I could work on_ , he thought reproachfully, watching Eponine dance effortlessly onstage. She appeared as if she was born to not only thrive in that environment, but dominate it. _Maybe there are other things I’m missing that I shouldn’t be_.

After the curtains were drawn and the applause died down, the trio stuck around for Eponine to emerge from the backstage area, once more dressed in her skinny jeans and Vans. Grantaire rushed toward her, managing to give her a massive hug that lifted her off her feet without squishing the flowers, and then setting the bouquet into her arms. She was over-joyed, of course, and threw her arms around him once more.

Enjolras felt like he was looking through a window and seeing something incredibly intimate and private. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt compelled to look away quickly and awkwardly, not wanting to invade that small, meaningful space anymore. It wasn’t that there was anything romantic or erotic flowing between Grantaire and Eponine. That might have been easier to understand. But in bittersweet fashion, Enjolras realized he was witnessing a truly authentic friendship, created over the years by careful, consistent investments by both parties, with neither putting any contingencies or expectations on the anticipated return. Unconditional companionship. Such that Enjolras wasn’t sure he’d ever actually experienced. Until maybe recently.

He turned toward Combeferre. He had started out merely as a roommate, but it occurred to Enjolras now that he would trust the other young man with his life. That surely counted for something. “Should we see if they want to go out for a celebratory dinner?”

Surprise quickly gave way to enthusiasm as Combeferre replied, “Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind?”

Enjolras shrugged. “What are friends for?”

Within a few minutes, the small group had made their way outside and down 4th Street, huddled closely against the icy wind, to a hole-in-the-wall café that served cheap cocktails, large portions of flavorful fries and surprisingly delicious chicken shawarma.

They ordered a round of drinks, intending to cheer Eponine’s successful opening night. However, their middle-aged waitress expressed obvious curiosity when Enjolras was the only one who didn’t order an alcoholic beverage. The others quickly seized the opportunity to chime in with their individual explanations that were more or less designed to tease their younger friend.

“Oh yes, his body is a temple,” Combeferre stated with a straight face. “The Parthenon, perhaps, or the Temple of Apollo Epicurius.”

“Mm,” Grantaire agreed. “He doesn’t allow anything through his hallowed gates that could diminish his esteemed physical and intellectual excellence.”

“No, what it really is,” Eponine exclaimed, “is that he gets unbelievably randy when he’s drunk, and we simply can’t have _any_ of that tonight.”

“I’m 19,” Enjolras stated for the benefit of the woman standing over their table with a pencil poised in her hand, probably wanting nothing more than to simply be able to do her job. Mercifully, she didn’t look bothered in the least. Instead, she smiled broadly down at Enjolras, the rich maroon of her lips juxtaposed prettily with the caramel of her skin.

“And he won’t let me get him a fake ID, the bastard.” Combeferre was known for getting the last laugh.

“Ah, I see,” the woman grinned knowingly, playing along, “that makes sense. Although, I’ve gotta’ say, you definitely look older than 19. And the temple explanation doesn’t seem like too much of a stretch.”

She glanced once more at Enjolras with a suggestive glimmer in her eye before leaving to collect their order.

“Having Enjolras around can be incredibly convenient sometimes,” Combeferre reflected when the woman was out of ear-shot. “We could probably get excused for the most ridiculous behavior if we were so inclined. Unfortunately, he’s not one for mischief if it doesn’t involve dismantling the patriarchal society.”

Enjolras scoffed, feeling uncomfortable to be the center of this kind of attention. “What do you mean?”

“I think he’s saying you’re not very much fun,” Grantaire quipped and Combeferre burst into amiable laughter. 

“Oh, come now, Enjolras,” Eponine supplied before Enjolras could defend himself against the others’ good-natured ribbing. Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone knows beautiful people can get away with a lot more, whether they want to or not. Believe me, I should know,” she joked. “And though I doubt you use them to your advantage, it’s not as if your good looks are exactly a secret. What is that thing you say, Grantaire,” she asked without caution, turning excitedly to her friend, “about ‘the angels’ and the ‘magnificent heavens’?”

The look Grantaire immediately gave her was an obvious imploration for her to _stop talking now_ , and she complied by snapping her mouth shut in a way that was almost more revealing than any words could ever be.

It would have been too late anyhow, as Enjolras was already recalling the phrase Combeferre had attributed to Grantaire—and which Enjolras had assumed to be complete bullshit. When he looked over curiously at Grantaire, the other deliberately cast his gaze down.

Enjolras let himself linger on the realization that Grantaire might genuinely find him attractive while Eponine haphazardly took the conversation in another direction. After that, the night rolled pleasantly along as they discussed their impending final exams and plans for winter break. Grantaire was going to see his sister and her family in Grand Rapids, while Combeferre was heading down to his parents’ house in Richmond. He hoped to leave as soon as he completed final exams the next week so he could be with his family for at least part of Hanukkah. Eponine’s family still lived outside of Chicago and mention of them launched her into an animated discussion about her three spirited younger siblings and their numerous holiday traditions, like a massive cookie-decorating contest with their cousins and going to the traditional tree-lighting ceremony in Millennium Park.

As an only child, Enjorlas didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation, but he felt light and content, laughing along with the others when Eponine shared how last year, her 6-year-old sister Maria thought a grand way to say “Welcome Back!” to her older sibling was by building a lovely snowman for her in her old bedroom. Of course, by the time Eponine arrived home later in the day, it had mostly melted into a large puddle that saturated the carpet. The story made Enjolras think of his grandma. She had acted as his primary guardian through his teenage years and she pulled out all the stops at Christmas, trying to make is as special as possible for the two of them. Her gingerbread was the best in the world, bar none. Little did Enjolras know that last year’s Christmas would be their swan song, as she passed away of a heart attack a few weeks afterward.

Laughter and banter made the better part of two hours fly by, and the clock on the wall read 11:27 by the time their plates were emptied. As Eponine finished the last of her margarita, however, a look of concern fell over her face. “Shit.”

“What’s up?” Grantaire asked. He’d finished off a second beer and looked perfectly comfortable, reclining against the corner of their orange booth and the wall.

“I forgot my script back at the theater.”

“Do you need it?” Enjolras asked. “It seemed to me like you had your parts _pretty_ well-memorized.”

“No, I do have them memorized,” she laughed, but her eyebrows were still drawn together. “But I like to look over my notes, even once we’ve started our run. Probably just a ridiculous superstition thing… but I can’t stand not having my script on me.”

“Do you think the theater is still open?” Combeferre questioned, not waiting for a response before offering, “Because I can walk back with you and see if it’s still there.”

“The maintenance crew should still be there getting everything organized!” Eponine sounded relieved, and maybe more than that. “If not, I know which of the back doors are most likely to be unlocked.”

“Let’s go,” Combeferre stood and pulled on his jacket. It only then seemed to dawn on him what this meant for Enjolras. “You two will be okay?”

“I _think_ we can successfully protect one another against the terrors that are undoubtedly lurking in the six blocks from here back to campus,” Grantaire deadpanned. “At the very least, I promise to make sure your Enjolras gets home in one piece.”

Enjolras, of course, wouldn’t dream of doing anything to strip Combeferre of this “convenient” little opportunity for him to spend time alone with Eponine. “We’ll be fine,” he assured his friend, although he expected an all-out revolt on his part wouldn’t do much to deter Combeferre now.

“Be safe, you two!” Grantaire called after them, but his inflection was soaked in subtext. He chuckled softly and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Well, that was subtle.”

Enjolras couldn’t help agreeing with his sarcasm. “You think that was intentional?”

“It might have actually been an accident that she left her script behind,” Grantaire answered after a second of contemplation. He was carefully peeling the soggy napkin into thin strips. “But she would have devised an excuse at some point tonight, I’m sure. At least, that’s what she alluded to earlier this evening.”

“Probably good,” Enjolras watched Grantaire’s nimble hands moving. He wondered how they looked covered in clay or wielding a paintbrush. “Ferre is astonishingly intimidated by this whole situation. I don’t know if he would have worked up the nerves to get her alone, even if he succeeded in fabricating a believable reason.”

“Hmmm,” Grantaire thoughtfully considered Enjolras. The latter wondered what it was the other young man might be searching for. However, all Grantaire said out loud was, “Well, I’d be happy for Nina if this were to go somewhere. She’s had her fair share of heartbreak in the past. And she was hung up on Marius for almost a year.”

“Really?” Enjolras couldn’t imagine what it was like for someone to hold your attention that long.

“Yep. Before he got together with a girl from Columbia named Cosette,” Grantaire mused. “Marius is a good enough bloke, sweet, charming. But indecisive. … He was more than content to take what she’d give, even though, as we came to find out, he never had much interest in pursuing anything serious with Nina.”

Enjolras was inwardly charmed by the “we.” He pictured Grantaire and Eponine figuratively hand-in-hand throughout the whole saga, sharing every detail and being equally invested in the outcome. “That’s regrettable.”

“Mmmm,” Grantaire nodded. “It was. Especially since Nina is the type of person who will go to great lengths for those she cares about. She’s just a _good_ person, you know? Really, truly good.”

Enjolras was about to respond cautiously that it seemed to be something the two had in common, when the waitress returned to see if they needed anything else.

Grantaire shook his head and Enjolras said, “Just a cup of chamomile tea to go. And the check, please.”

“You and your warm beverages,” Grantaire cocked his head to the side, running his long fingers through his bangs as he watched Enjorlas. 

Enjolras felt his cheeks grow warmer, but he didn’t hesitate to respond in kind. “Yes, well, only the best for this sacred temple of mine.”

Grantaire laughed appreciatively. “Oh yeah, how could I forget? Better make sure it’s imported.”

“I’d expect nothing less from a 24-hour dive,” Enjolras smirked. “No, but really… the tea helps me sleep, I think… at least a little.”

“Is that a common problem for you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Has been for a few years, but really intensified since I started college.” Enjolras reached for his glass of water. He was starting to get a bit unnerved by how comfortable and easy it was between them.

Grantaire gave a low whistle. “That sucks. You should have more sex.”

Enjolras was taking a sip at that moment and it was a miracle he didn’t digress into an all-out coughing fit when he choked on the mouthful of water.

“Excuse me?” He asked when he finally managed to swallow.

Grantaire looked slightly taken aback, as if his suggestion was so grounded in common sense and common knowledge, it was strange and unexpected for Enjolras to react in such a way.

“Sex,” he repeated, a little slower, as if he was explaining an advanced concept to a novice. “It’s been known to release endorphins. Tire you out. Help you sleep better at night. Those sorts of things…?”

Enjolras sat there silently, still aghast and unable to wrap his head around the fact that suddenly and without warning he was talking about _sex_ with _Grantaire_ , and the latter seemed completely unfazed by the discussion.

“You…have had sex before…right?”

Enjolras hesitated. He certainly didn’t buy into the whole toxic concept of assigning levels of value to someone based on whether they had or had not fornicated, or how much, or with how many people. As a result of his very feminist mother, he firmly believed every person should figure out their own sexual ethic and live by the standards and types of intimacy that made them feel most at peace with themselves.

But still… for whatever reason, he didn’t like the idea of admitting to Grantaire—with his sexy nose piercing, sleek tattooed skin and beautifully full lips—that he was, technically, a virgin whose only prior experience consisted of a few mild and completely unfulfilling make-out sessions with a couple girls and one boy when he was still figuring things out at his rigorous private school.

It just seemed to further solidify this persona Grantaire already associated with Enjolras of being young, naïve, inexperienced, and out of his depths.

At last, he asked fiercely, “Does it matter?”, knowing full well that was as much of an answer as anything.

To Enjolras’ surprise, Grantaire simply furrowed his brow and responded adamantly, “No, of course it doesn’t. That’s not what I meant.” He had the decency to look a bit flustered as he plunged ahead, “I just thought… someone like you…who _looks_ like you…I mean, with your,” Grantaire gestured vaguely to his face, “and your other…assets, and mental attributes, and your, you know….” it seemed to dawn on him that this sentence was spiraling out of his control, for he let it fade before repeating conclusively, “No. It does not.”

There were so many thoughts rushing through Enjolras’ mind at the minute, and he didn’t quite know how to unravel these tangled fragments into anything clear and coherent. Part of him wanted to hear more about which of his particular “assets” and “mental attributes” Grantaire found alluring. Part of him wanted this conversation to simply disintegrate and never materialize again. Part of him wanted to rebuke Grantaire for broaching such a personal and private topic in the first place. And some tiny, nearly unrecognizable part of him wanted to blaze forward, casting aside inhibitions to provocatively suggest that if Grantaire was so interested in his sex life, maybe he could help Enjolras manifest it. _I am a virgin, Grantaire…Would you like to fuck me and change that?_

The last inclination was not the one Enjolras would be indulging.

To his great relief, the waitress chose that moment to return to their table with the check. Grantaire must have been feeling at least partially as uncomfortable as Enjolras, for he quickly took it from her and slipped a couple 20s into the pocket without letting Enjolras object. 

It proved to be an effective tool for rerouting their conversation after the awkward turn it had taken. Or at least, ending it altogether.

Enjolras hastily slipped into his coat and headed outside, taking a second to breathe in the frigid night air, heavy and invigorating. A few seconds later, he was joined on the sidewalk by Grantaire.

“I can pay you back tomorrow,” Enjolras offered, wanting to keep their remaining conversation safely constrained to topics that didn’t lend themselves to innuendo, let alone blatant references to sex.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grantaire shrugged. He gestured down the glistening sidewalk. “Shall we?”

“Seriously?” Enjolras stared quizzically at the brunet. “I thought you were joking about us protecting each other.”

“I was,” Grantaire agreed, his eyes twinkling mischievously, “but I wasn’t joking about keeping you safe.”

“Screw you,” Enjolras said, but there was no bite to it.

“C’mon, Enjolras,” Grantaire cajoled. “Your dorm is on the way to mine. It’s weird if we don’t walk together.”

“Fair enough,” Enjolras conceded, breaking into a stride that Grantaire was quick to join.

There were still quite a few people milling about at this point, even though it was a little past midnight. Enjolras appreciated that about urban life—the steady strum of motion and energy that persisted at any and all hour of the day. There was a note of possibility forever sustained in the air.

Although the pair remained quiet for most of their walk, merely taking in the view of the trees illuminated by snow and the colorful lights winding their way through landscape and around storefront windows, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt rather serene. 

However, as they approached Enjolras’ building, he felt compelled to break the silence. “Not to pair off our friends before they’re even sure they want that themselves,” he said slowly, hoping his words didn't come off as superfluous, “but Eponine will be alright with Ferre.”

Grantaire looked slightly confused, so Enjolras continued. “I just mean, he’s a genuinely good person, too. He would never lead her on or abuse her kindness. And if she says ‘no,’ that’ll be that. I can almost swear to it. I’ve _never_ seen him cross the line…with anyone.”

“It’s sweet...to hear you compliment someone so adamantly,” Grantaire was looking at the ground, his face dressed in a grin. “And a little strange, not going to lie. But I do trust Combeferre. And while Nina can hold her own, I like the thought of not seeing her gradually broken down, day by day, by someone who makes her feel less than she is.”

They were now stopped in front of Enjolras’ dorm room. To his relief, there was no sock hanging from the doorknob or questionable sounds emanating from inside. Hopefully, if an exciting next step was in motion, it was happening far away from Enjolras’ bedroom.

He started digging in his pocket for his keys, purposely trying to avoid Grantaire’s face when he stated, “Eponine’s lucky to have you as a friend then. From what I’ve observed, her worth isn’t something you’d let her forget very easily.”

When Enjolras finally located his keys and looked up, he was met merely with the sight of Grantaire searching through his own bag. However, the brunet’s voice was oddly soft and strained when he answered, “Thank you.”

Enjolras had unlocked his door and was about to go through, when Grantaire stopped him. “Wait a second… ah, here we go,” he pulled a manila folder from his bag and held it out to Enjolras. “Here. It’s done.”

Enjolras took the folder and gingerly opened it. Inside was a final draft of the logo Grantaire had promised him. All the light pencil lines were gone, as were all other indications of it ever being anything but flawless. The red and black were striking, exactly as Enjolras would’ve intended.

“It’s… perfect.” Enjolras slowly traced the outline.

Grantaire didn’t hide his pleasure at Enjolras’ reaction. “Also,” he pointed to 10 digits written hastily in black ink on the inside of the folder, “that’s my number. Text me your email address and I’ll send you the files for it. I have an EPS and a JPG and a PNG.”

“I’ll do that,” Enjolras said. He was finding it hard to talk, even to think. It felt like his chest was full of cotton, disrupting his body’s normal functions. He wasn’t even sure he could breathe right at this point. Quickly, he closed the folder and started to head inside.

“Good night, Enjolras.”

“Good night, Grantaire.”

* * *

It was late. It was dark. And Enjolras was restless and exhausted and struggling to sleep. Again. But this time, he wasn’t obsessing about the debate tournament he was leaving for in the morning, or outlining an essay in his mind, or wondering how he performed on his French test. He wasn’t even thinking about whether his father would insist on him coming home for winter break, or replaying carefully preserved memories of his mother—a few of the regular visitors that periodically inhabited his mind.

Instead, Enjolras was thinking about something exotic yet thrilling. Something he rarely allowed to enter his thoughts. He was thinking about sex. To be more precise, sex with Grantaire. And he didn’t know how to stop.

He blamed Grantaire for bringing it up earlier that evening and planting this small, noxious seed in his mind. He blamed his chronic insomnia, which _clearly_ was making him fucking delusional. He blamed and he cursed and he sighed and he flipped over his pillow a dozen time. But he couldn’t stymie this one vivid sequence that involved the two of them standing out in the open courtyard between the dining hall and two perpendicular wings of the university’s science center.

There was an opulent marble fountain in the middle of the small plaza and half a dozen elegant streetlamps. Enjolras could just picture the gauzy golden glow from the lamps reflecting off Grantaire’s penetrating eyes and silver nose ring and creating shadows along the delicate curves and intriguing edges of his face. Grantaire would be smirking confidently, because he was _always_ smirking confidently. But there would be something else captured in his gaze: the spark of reverence and admiration Enjolras could’ve sworn he detected during a recent city council meeting when Enjolras gave a presentation for their organization, and a handful of members—Grantaire included—were in attendance.

And, even in this uninvited fantasy, Enjolras didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly, Grantaire was lowering his head and closing in on Enjolras’ lips with his pretty mouth. And the kiss was not hesitant at all, nor even soft and sweet, but fierce and relentless, a battle for dominance, with Grantaire licking his way into Enjolras’ mouth, and lightly biting his lower lip, and somehow, eventually, claiming unheard of control over the iron-willed leader.

And then Enjolras would simply…let go. Relinquishing…submitting…and then relishing the sensation of being utterly, exquisitely overwhelmed, both physically and mentally, as Grantaire aggressively took the lead—along with anything and everything he desired from the younger student.

Enjolras envisioned the wet heat of Grantaire’s masterful tongue in his mouth. The steel grip of his hands on Enjolras’ face. The pressure against his chest and hips and cock when Grantaire pushes him into the brick wall of a small alcove that immediately blankets their bodies in syrupy darkness as rich and thick and consuming as their mutual desire. And once there, concealed by the safety and obscurity of night, Enjolras would toss back his head and let Grantaire suck and bite a possessive mark on his neck while Enjolras shamelessly ruts against the solid thigh pressing between his legs. No longer able to hold back, Enjolras would let his hands explore the parts of Grantaire that had unintentionally drawn Enjolras’ attention on several occasions. The well-defined arms. His ridiculous mess of thick, dark curls. The seductive curve of his hip. And that stunning ass. At all points, he would squeeze and clutch and cling on, anchoring himself in the middle of this licentious storm to the strong, solid form of Grantaire. _Grantaire_.

At this point, there was a hand around the silky, smooth length of Enjolras’ cock. In his mind’s eye, it was Grantaire’s hand, large, lightly calloused, and smudged with charcoal, applying the perfect amount of pressure and pulling him into a pre-orgasm haze. In reality, however, Enjolras was touching himself; granting himself a moment of sensual pleasure, so rare and so intoxicating, groaning softly into his pillow as his arousal mounted at an alarming rate.

This was part of the reason he avoided the whole issue of sex in the first place. First and foremost, he had met precious few people who he felt warranted a second glance. Certainly no one who had sparked anything remotely resembling love—and at one point he even wondered if perhaps he was asexual.

But this was also part of it: The whole sex thing was, at its core, messy and futile. There was no rational explanation for sexual impulses. They were random and erratic, and yet, could awaken something inside a person so sharp and forceful it chipped away at their better sense. People wasted countless hours pining and yearning and lusting, getting what they wanted and then wanting something else; having one urge satisfied only to have another pop up in hellish, hydralike succession. Enjolras generally found the entire enterprise of sexual gratification a messy waste of time and energy.

Worst of all, it was unpredictable and disconcerting. _Case in point_ , Enjolras mused bitterly. Here he was, horny beyond reason, urgently groping and caressing his dick to produce much-needed climax, and all because of someone as unequivocally incompatible and contrary as Grantaire. And yet, Enjolras was inexplicably drawn to him, tempted by him, and even mentally fucked because of him. In fact, the image of Grantaire sinfully dragging his tongue up Enjolras’ cock after tying the blond’s hands together behind his back, prohibiting him from touching and taking, was the last thing that flashed in Enjolras’ mind before he came, _hard_ , swallowing a vulnerable whimper so as not to disturb his slumbering roommate.

 _Grantaire_.

Enjolras savored the sweet nectar of sexual release for a moment before acknowledging the enormous sense of self-loathing lurking in the background. He pulled off his undershirt and used it to wipe up the excess of cum smeared on his hand, his groin and his lower stomach, all the while trying to talk down the embarrassment and disgust demanding his attention.

Tossing the now-soiled shirt to the foot of his bed, he flopped back onto his pillow and tried to reassure himself this was a one-time thing.

_I will get this under control. I will. Never again. I swear. Never... again…_

That was as far as he got before sinking into a deep, untroubled sleep that was not broken until the sound of his phone’s alarm prompted him awake with the morning light.


	4. Castles in the Cloud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably should have labeled this work Explicit in the first place because of my liberal use of the word "fuck." But, obviously, that use will only proliferate in the coming chapters, so I'm doing it now. Anyone who is not here for that, you've been warned.

In the week between Eponine’s opening night and the following Thursday, a few significant occurrences transpired. To start with, Enjolras had five challenging final examinations to study for and then perform, with one more scheduled for the following Friday. Cheers to an 18-credit schedule.

That alone would have been enough to put ample pressure on Enjolras’ nerves. However, early in the week, he also received an unexpected and unpleasant notice from the police commissioner’s office, explaining there were some unidentified “issues” with his permit request for a protest their club had scheduled for the first week in January. It didn’t give any sort of explanation or outline procedures Enjolras could follow to fix the problem in order for the event to proceed as planned. When Enjolras called to get it sorted out, he was passed around between automated messages and the voicemails of people who had already departed the office to go gallivanting for the holidays. By the end of it, Enjolras had left at least a half-dozen messages and still was yet to be given a clear answer of what exactly the problem was and why their permit request was receiving such a questionable response.

On Thursday, Combeferre departed for Virginia early in the afternoon, leaving Enjolras on his own to endure roughly two more days on campus and one more test of his own before he was scheduled to travel back upstate. As Enjolras accompanied Combeferre to Penn Station under the guise of helping him with his luggage and strategizing on how to deal with the police commissioner’s office—in actuality, they spent the majority of the time discussing Combeferre’s thoughts on how to keep up the momentum with Eponine over the next three weeks while they were apart—Enjolras was struck by just how much he would miss his friend.

“Remember,” Combeferre said as they pushed their way through the busy depot, “Our door is always open if you want to come visit. I’d be happy to see you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Enjolras responded, and he genuinely meant it. “Thanks, Ferre.”

As he walked back to campus, mulling over and feeling grateful for his ability to develop a genuine friendship despite everything that had occurred in his adolescence, he received the phone call he’d been subconsciously expecting but dreading, and it went about how he planned.

As per usual, his father greeted him as if they inhabited the pinnacle of a father-son relationship. Full of affection and kind words. Wondering if he was coming "home" to celebrate Christmas this year. Enjolras shortly and severely reminded his estranged father that he didn’t want to talk to him, that he’d asked him repeatedly to not call again. Of course, his father acted wounded, expressing fabricated confusion—“Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting me? Don’t you know how much I love you?” Enjolras felt the expected pull of shame, which was tethered directly to the sense of family obligation instilled in him from the time he was born. You weren’t supposed to turn your back on your family—especially on the only living member. You were supposed to forgive, to forget, to work at it, to move on. God forgives, god forgives, god forgives. Enjolras repeated his request, firmly, that his father not reach out to him again. Then, of course, the typical next step in the cycle of these conversations: Violence, anger, abuse. “You’re not enough. You’re not living up to your potential. You’ll regret this later.” Finally, the conversation ended with Enjolras hanging up the phone and facing a cascade of guilt and self-loathing—both because it was an undisputable fact that he was spawned from this terrible man and because he still answered the phone in the first place. Every time. And he couldn’t explain why.

By that evening, facing down the accumulation of a week full of shitty and stressful circumstances, Enjolras felt himself struck with an aggressive impulse to do something chancy or terrifying. But not within the range of what putting himself at risk customarily meant to Enjolras. He was used to that and it wouldn’t satisfy this itch. He wanted something different, something uncharacteristic. A chance to say “fuck you” to the interior brakes that constantly obstructed any notion or impulse Enjolras might have for spontaneity and doing things simply because they were fun, brakes that he suspected were installed subconsciously over the years as a result of perpetual exposure to trauma and systems of oppression.

It didn’t help that he’d had Grantaire’s voice playing over and over again in his mind the past few days: _You should have more sex. You should have more sex. You should have more sex..._

Feeling ambiguously resentful—toward his horrible father, toward the police commissioner, or potentially the powerful bureaucrats pulling the strings behind closed doors, and definitely toward himself—he finally answered that voice on Thursday night: _You know what?_ _Maybe I should._

It wasn’t as if he was waiting for anything in particular and it certainly wasn’t some intentional, overarching goal in his life to stay chaste. It was merely a byproduct of the fact that he found no one that appealing. _Except…_

But he wouldn’t go there. Nor would he have the slightest idea how to make that happen. _And I don’t want it to,_ he reminded himself for the dozenth time.

Suppressing all thoughts of Grantaire, Enjolras searched his phone for a text message he’d received earlier that day from Jehan, inviting him to a party at their friend Joly’s apartment off campus. That seemed like as good a spot as any to find a willing partner for testing out this whole sex thing and discovering if it really would help him relieve his stress in any sort of noticeable, if not meaningful, way.

Enjolras rarely put much thought or effort into his appearance except when he was presenting for class or during certain debate matches. Even then, it was about fulfilling a utilitarian rather than aesthetic goal. Clothing and exterior presentation could be used as tools to advance you toward success in certain spheres. But Enjolras didn’t want the people he cared about to factor his outward appearance into their estimation of him. That’s why his general baseline was to be clean, smell good and look presentable.

Tonight, however, he made an exception. If what Eponine had said was true, he could polish the gift, just this once, and hope it made him more alluring to some stranger. And when that person inevitably had sex with him based entirely on his looks, he would lose all respect for them, which would ensure it was a one-time occurrence. That seemed like a foolproof system to Enjolras.

After showering, he carefully chose a vibrant teal shirt that highlighted the intense blue of his eyes, along with dark jeans that accentuated his slender but well-defined build. Instead of Converse, he selected a pair of nice, brown leather lace-up shoes. Standing in front of the mirror, feeling a bit self-conscious as he tried to evaluate his appearance in terms of “Do I look fuckable?,” he ran his fingers through the long, loose curls that fell past his clean-shaven chin. _It’ll do_ , he decided.

Joly’s apartment, which he shared with two other med students, was filled with atmospheric light and noise when Enjolras arrived. He made the rounds, saying hello to the host—an incredibly kind, good-natured young man who was currently in the process of applying for a residency. Jehan greeted him as well and tried pulling him into a game of beer pong, which Enjolras laughingly declined, promising he would join another time. He was going to drink tonight, though, he decided. That would probably be helpful, given his set mission for the night.

The first drink he tried was some outlandish combination of soda and lime extract and an alcohol Enjolras wouldn’t have been able to identify even if he wanted to. It was disgusting, and the second time around, he figured simply taking a shot of vodka was preferable to suffering through a disgustingly sweet concoction. The alcohol burned his tongue and throat going down, but he found he appreciated the discomfort and everything it signified. It felt oddly galvanizing. What was the point of self-destructive behaviors if you weren’t forced to confront that they kind of sucked and actually produced less than enjoyable sensations, but you chose to do them anyway?

Forty-five minutes, two games of Texas Hold ‘Em and another drink later, Enjolras was feeling exactly as he wanted to. Numb. Detached. Yet still cognizant and controlled enough to work the bewitching charm of which he was so capable. 

The whole room seemed a little brighter now, the laughter and conversation sharper and more piercing. Someone had put on a playlist filled with terrible ‘90s pop music and a few noticeably intoxicated students were dancing and grinding with one another. Across the space, Enjolras spotted a young man with platinum hair and dark eyes. Eyes that were blatantly fixed on Enjolras and defined lips that curved upward when Enjolras looked back at him.

If Enjolras focused hard enough he could assess that the young man was objectively good-looking…tall, ripped and wearing obviously expensive clothing and accessories. He didn’t make Enjolras feel any sort of way, except curious, and that was perfect.

Enjolras smiled openly at him and was quickly given a flirtatious grin in return. As soon as he won the current round of poker that he was playing, Enjolras determinedly made his way across the room to where the other young man was relaxing on the couch, garish red drink in hand.

“Mind if I sit here?” Enjolras asked. At least he sounded bold and confident, if not suggestive. That was a tone he hadn’t quite mastered as a result of an utter lack of practice.

“I was hoping you would, handsome.” Apparently, the young man lacked no such skill.

Enjolras slid onto the soft leather, realizing only then that he might be a bit tipsier than he thought. Sitting felt exceptionally good.

“I’m Matt,” the young man offered, taking a sip from his cup. “And you are…?”

“Enjolras. Nice to meet you?”

“Enjolras… that’s different. Sexy, though.”

 _Well,_ Enjolras thought, _this might be easier than I thought it would_ _be_. Out loud, he simply said, “Thanks. My father’s idea of upholding the immaculate family prestige, no doubt.”

He was mostly joking, but the only response he received from the other young man was an obvious pique of interest at the word “prestige.”

“My family’s exactly the same way,” Matt responded, clearly delighted they could bond over what he assumed was their mutual upper-class status. “What will look best on the side of a building, you know? That’s important to think about when you have a social responsibility like we do.”

 _Grantaire would give this guy me so much shit._ Enjolras couldn’t resist being inwardly entertained as he briefly pictured how, exactly, that sort of encounter would play out.

“Where are you from, Enjolras?”

With a start, Enjolras realized the other young man had rested his right hand lightly on his knee while his muscular left arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind Enjolras. He wished desperately that it would send a jolt of excitement zipping through his veins, but it didn’t. It didn’t even provoke a trickle of desire. Enjolras didn’t feel anything. However, that included discomfort, so he saw no reason not to plunge ahead.

“Scarsdale originally,” Enjolras answered, shifting a little so his leg pressed up against Matt’s. Still nothing, but it did make the other young man move closer as well and slide his hand further up Enjolras’ thigh, fingers bending into the firm flesh. “But I moved to Albany in my early teens. And you?”

“Born and raised in Manhattan. Upper East Side, of course. My father is an investment banker.”

The conversation proceeded along fine for the following few minutes. Nothing riveting, nor alarming. At one point, Matt dropped some unsubstantiated yet thoroughly pompous remark about the “undeniable benefits of top-down economics,” but Enjolras managed to bite his tongue at that. His mind was foggy from consuming alcohol for the first time and he didn’t feel up to debating the nuances of a market-based economy at the moment. Nor did he find it a necessary milestone on his way to achieving a one-night stand. A journey, he noted, that was advancing along quite well, if the other student’s superfluous touching and disingenuous but ample laughter were any indication.

Enjolras imagined what it might look like to be alone with this man. To have him strip off his clothes and touch Enjolras in an intimate way. The picture was unnerving in a way—not the same way as thinking of Grantaire kissing and licking down his chest was unnerving—but it wasn’t necessarily unappealing either, he decided.

Enjolras’ reverie was interrupted at that moment as Matt leaned in closer, his eyes blatantly pinned on Enjolras’ lips and his hand playing with Enjolras’ soft curls. “I’ve just gotta’ say, you have _the_ sexiest mouth ever.”

Enjolras smirked. “It’s even sexier when I’m using it to promote ideas about the advancement of social justice and wealth distribution.”

Matt nodded enthusiastically, “I can tell you’re like, super smart. That’s _so_ hot.”

Enjolras fought back the urge to roll his eyes, instead letting his own hand fall to Matt’s leg. He couldn’t help thinking that if Grantaire was the one sitting beside him, he would’ve wasted no time countering Enjolras’ facetious self-applause with an equally clever and sarcastic retort that would’ve made Enjolras laugh or kept him on his toes.

As if on cue, Grantaire suddenly materialized in Enjolras’ peripheral vision, stirring Enjolras’ senses and putting him on edge. Grantaire was standing next to Jehan but watching Enjolras and the other young man nestled on the couch. As their gazes connected, Grantaire made a quick comment to Jehan, laughed at what he said in response, and then started moving in their direction. Enjolras’ mouth suddenly felt dry and cottony and it took him a second to realize his shoulders had tensed.

Grantaire sidled up to the couch, perching on the plushy arm. “Enjolras,” he said by way of greeting.

“Hello, Grantaire,” Enjolras looked up at him. He caught a whiff of Grantaire’s heady, masculine cologne and it made him dizzier than he already was.

Matt looked from Grantaire to Enjolras inquisitively. Finally, he slurred out, “How’s it going… Grant, was it?”

“Grantaire,” the brunet corrected him, reaching around Enjolras to hold out his hand to Matt. The gesture brought his shoulder and his face much closer to Enjolras, who could now clearly see the thick lashes that fringed Grantaire’s eyes—eyes that carried a multitude of colors and just as many moods—and a freckle resting on his cheekbone. _It’s a nice face_ , Enjolras mused tipsily, leaning back automatically to avoid Grantaire’s messy hair brushing his nose. “Nice to see you again… Matt, was it?”

Matt shook Grantaire’s hand amiably, and then the brunet sat back upright, which gave Enjolras a chance to let out the breath he was holding in. The last thing he needed was Grantaire’s smell lingering in his nostrils, and his mind, all night.

“You two having fun?” Grantaire asked casually, finishing off the good half-an-inch of dark auburn liquid in his glass in a single gulp.

“Oh yeah,” Matt grinned enthusiastically. He looked suggestively at Enjolras and added, “And the night’s still young. Isn’t that right, sexy?”

Enjolras merely nodded, unsettled to hear himself called that, especially in Grantaire’s presence. He could only imagine the flack Grantaire would no doubt give him later on.

However, Grantaire didn’t look interested at all. His lips were pressed tightly together and he was gazing toward the kitchen, as if pondering whether he needed another drink. “It sure is,” he agreed rather absently. 

“And you?” Enjolras blurted out, unable to hold his tongue anymore. “How is your night going?”

“Aces,” Grantaire responded, almost sarcastically. “I think I need some fresh air, though.”

Enjolras’ sightline was suddenly filled with an image of the sumptuous curve where Grantaire’s ass met his upper thigh as the brunet stood up.

“Enjolras,” he asked, pulling Enjolras’ gaze up from his tantalizing backside— _it was right there, for god’s sake!_ —to his face, “would you care to join me outside for a moment?” Grantaire’s own eyes were still openly scrutinizing the platinum-haired man with his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Okay?” Enjolras responded, not bothering to hide his confusion. Grantaire nodded and then turned, not waiting for Enjolras as he strode out of the room.

The other student—Mark? Matt?—gently brushed Enjolras’ cheek, winking suggestively, “See you soon, handsome?”

“Of course,” Enjolras forced out a brief smile as he rose to his feet. He then quickly followed in the direction Grantaire had left, finding him out on the front stoop of the apartment building.

When he got there, Grantaire was leaning against the wall, a cigarette resting between his fingers. He was taking long drags, his stare focused out toward the street.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Enjolras said, settling beside Grantaire so he wouldn’t be standing in the way of people filtering in and out of the building. His head was starting to hurt a little and his vision still seemed a bit fuzzy, so the envelope of frigid air that wrapped around him was a welcome relief.

“Mmm, only when I drink,” Grantaire responded, slowly exhaling a thin, ivory stream of pungent smoke.

“So, you’re a smoker,” Enojlras stated decisively.

Grantaire chuckled. “When I’m drinking _a lot_ ,” he clarified. “Or when I’m particularly bothered by something.”

“You? Bothered?”

“It happens occasionally.”

“What’s bothering you?” Enjolras said, turning to face Grantaire, his arms crossed protectively in front of his chest and his shoulder pressed against the icy concrete where he also rested his head. It seemed heavy and full of filmy cobwebs.

Grantaire didn’t respond immediately, but instead took a few more drags of his cigarette. Finally, he asked, seemingly ignoring Enjolras’ question, “What exactly was I witnessing in there?”

“What?”

“Inside,” Grantaire elaborated, “with that guy. Was that what it looked like?”

“What did it look like?” Enjolras asked. It irritated him a bit when Grantaire did this—asking so many questions while looking completely nonchalant, as if the answers didn’t matter to him. How could anyone care so little about virtually _everything_?

“Honestly? It looked like you were about to be deflowered,” Grantaire stated, the corner of mouth twisting up sardonically.

“ _Deflowered_?” Now Enjolras was genuinely irritated.

Grantaire smiled, but there was a sharpness to it that Enjolras couldn’t decipher. “Fine. It looked like your reign of celibacy was about to end. Is that better?”

Enjolras’ eyes widened incredulously. He didn’t know what to say. Finally, he settled on, “What the fuck, Grantaire?”

“Am I wrong?” Grantaire asked, almost harshly, turning to face Enjolras at last.

Enjolras could feel viscous vexation starting to bubble inside him. How dare Grantaire take this tone with him when he no doubt slept around with people on a regular basis?

Meeting Grantaire’s eyes with his own unwavering glare, Enjolras challenged him precisely on that point. “If I remember correctly, _you_ were the one who suggested I have more sex merely to cope with my insomnia.”

“Huh,” Grantaire gave a short laugh. “I’ve never known you to take advice from anyone… least of all me.”

For whatever reason, the comment hit Enjolras like a slap in the face. It was seeming like he and Grantaire were making headway on moving past their mutual animosity and actually, sort of, _maybe_ becoming friends. And yet here Grantaire was, once again issuing incredibly presumptive remarks that continued to judge Enjolras as arrogant and cold. “What the hell is your problem?”

Grantaire must’ve read how his comment affected Enjolras, for his stony countenance softened and he had the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he dropped the glowing butt of his cigarette to the ground and pressed it under his boot. “That was uncalled for. I’m just surprised.”

“Why should you be surprised? You know as well as anyone that we humans have certain…physiological needs. It seemed worth exploring what it was like to get those taken care of.”

“So… in order to ‘experiment’—and ‘gather your data,’ I’m sure—your plan was to pick up some stranger at a party? And then just, what? Let him do what he wanted to you?”

“Why not? People do that all the time!”

“Not you!” Grantaire’s guise of disinterest was gradually disintegrating, his eyes flashing and his chest rising and falling visibly.

“What is the big deal?” Enjolras was genuinely curious, which allowed his emotions to shift from anger to simple annoyance. “Why do you even care?”

“Because!” Grantaire glanced around to ensure they were still alone. “You don’t have a lot of experience.”

Enjolras scoffed. “What the hell does _that_ matter? Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I fit into some puerile, damsel-in-distress trope. I don’t need rescuing.”

“I know that,” Grantaire shot back. “It’s…. I don’t know… I can’t stand the thought of some drunk, grubby frat boy just…fucking you…like you’re another one-night stand that he doesn’t care to remember in the morning!” Grantaire would’ve been shouting was he not speaking in a whisper. When it came to his eyes, however, his anger was not tempered. “Some careless asshole who doesn’t know _who_ and _what_ you are, who doesn’t realize how lucky they are to even touch you. Someone who doesn’t give you the goddamn respect you deserve.”

“That’s the whole fucking point, isn’t it?” Enjolras asked, the unhinged laughter in his voice highlighting the insane confusion he felt about the situation. The door opened and a giggling couple poured out, clinging to one another and halfway tumbling down the stairs. Enjolras stepped closer to Grantaire and lowered his voice even more. “If it was someone who actually cared about and respected me, and vice versa, then it wouldn’t be _just sex_. It would be _something_. And I don’t have time for that. I don’t _want_ that. Honestly…I don’t even know if I’m capable of that,” he paused, concerned by the torrent of emotion rising up and the fact that it was colored with painful self-awareness at his limited ability to connect on the deepest, most sacred level with other humans. “All I want is to not feel. And not care. And to get off so I might have a chance of getting decent sleep for one god-forsaken night. Like _you_ suggested.”

“Fine. I get that,” Grantaire placed his hand on Enjolras’ arm, as if to steady him, but all it sufficed for was sending a jolt through Enjolras and drawing an inordinate amount of his attention to the point where their bodies were now connected. “Not someone who _likes_ you, per se. Or even longs for you. But at least someone you _trust_. Someone who’ll see to it that the experience is positive and fulfilling for _you_. Who’ll make sure you’re taken care of properly.”

“Seriously. Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, exasperated. “I don’t understand why you’re even concerned about this at all. Why should it matter to you?” Taking a deep breath, he ventured the one giant question pounding in his slightly alcohol-impaired brain before he could second-guess himself. “Are you wanting me to ask you to hook-up? Is that it?”

Grantaire froze, his mouth slightly open, his eyebrows brushing the edges of his curly bangs. He pulled back his hand from Enjolras’ arm. “I… I mean… that’s not—”

“And if I did ask you,” Enjolras cut him off boldly, “for meaningless sex, what would be your response?”

The shock seemed to have finally thawed, for Grantaire was settled once more into his customary smirk. Clearing his throat, he replied, “Looks like you need some practice, Enjolras. In terms of asking someone for intercourse, I’m sure you can do better than that.”

“Good god,” Enjolras turned away. “I’m done here.”

He strode down the steps and had made it about 15 feet when he realized Grantaire was only a pace or two behind.

"You want some mashed potatoes?”

Enjolras stopped and turned on his heel, unsure whether he felt annoyed or embarrassed or aroused—or maybe a combination of all three. “Excuse me?”

“Mashed potatoes,” Grantaire repeated, catching up to the other young man. “I’m starving. And I have a feeling it wouldn’t be the worst idea for you to eat something starchy and filling before you go to sleep.”

“I don’t think that will be anytime soon—that was the whole fucking impetus for this,” Enjolras grumbled, but he suddenly realized that mashed potatoes did sound good. Or pancakes slathered in peanut butter and maple syrup. “Fine.”

The tension strung out between them slowly dissipated as Grantaire led them quickly to a 24-hour diner a few blocks down the street. Along the way, Grantaire pointed out a shabby looking record store—“one of my favorite haunts in the city,” he explained—which started them on a pleasant conversation about music and bands that lasted through the process of them ducking into the cozy diner, getting seated and ordering food.

Enjolras was surprised to learn they had several favorites in common: Arctic Monkeys, Weezer, The Cure, The Clash, The Shins, lots of other bands starting with “The,” and, obviously, classics like Queen and R.E.M. Grantaire also waxed eloquent about The Smashing Pumpkins— _of course_ —but he also had an unexpected affinity for obscure instrument-heavy groups, like Explosions in the Sky and Scale the Summit. And Enjolras couldn’t talk about music without mentioning Black Flag and Pussy Riot.

“You’d love the Empty Bottle, in Chicago,” Grantaire said, still trying to warm up his bare hands by massaging them together. The window pane beside their booth was covered in delicate tendrils and specks of frost. “It started out as this little hole-in-the-wall bar in Ukrainian Village. And it doesn’t look like much from the outside, but you can catch some amazing up-and-coming indie rock groups. And those anti-establishment outfits you like as well.”

He winked playfully, and Enjolras had to purse his lips to suppress a smile. “That sounds incredible. I don’t think I take nearly enough opportunities to enjoy art and live music. I don’t know where I’d find the time.”

“Maybe it’s more about _making_ the time,” Grantaire responded simply, without judgement. “Plus, there’s historically been a strong connection between art and politics. Artwork can be a powerful tool for making a statement, challenging the status quo. Even sparking a movement.”

“Oh, is that so? I had no idea,” Enjolras teased, grinning when Grantaire simply flipped him off.

Their server, a friendly young man with fiery red hair and a lopsided grin, appeared at their table, setting down plates filled with sizzling bacon, fluffy eggs and pancakes. Plus, a bowl of whipped potatoes bearing a pool of brown gravy. He topped off their coffee and Enjolras took a second to breathe in the soothing aroma. 

“I’ll be back with your peanut butter,” he told Enjolras. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Hit by an array of tantalizing smells, Enjolras realized he was ravenous. The two young men ate in amiable silence for several minutes. Enjolras had just finished off his first cup of coffee and spread copious amounts of peanut butter on his pancakes when Grantaire asked, “Feeling better?”

“I actually am,” Enjolras responded, tipping up a forkful of soggy, syrupy pancakes to demonstrate his point. “And you?”

“I wasn’t inebriated,” Grantaire shot back. However, after a moment he added grudgingly, “But as for _my mood_ … yes, I am.”

Enjolras had finished half his pancakes when he realized Grantaire had paused eating and was looking at him carefully, his head cocked to the side. Enjolras raised his eyebrows in question.

“I want to tell you something,” Grantaire said.

The pitch of his voice struck Enjolras as strange. There was a note of uncommon yet unadulterated sincerity that made Enjolras set down his own fork so he could focus on Grantaire’s face. “What is it?”

Grantaire took a deep breath, looking at his hands and then back up at Enjolras. “When I was in high school, I dated this guy.”

This was not at all where Enjolras expected the conversation to go, but he listened patiently and with interest as Grantaire continued, “We met in middle school, and then got together our freshman year when he found out I was pansexual and asked me to homecoming. And it was…amazing.” His eyes took on a sort of hazy, faraway look as he further reminisced, “We were best friends and we spent hours together almost every day. He was my first… well, my first everything. We were in love.”

Grantaire paused to take a drink of his coffee. Enjolras rested his elbows on the table, watching Grantaire’s face move through a series of unique emotions, one right after the other.

“His parents didn’t like me,” Grantaire finally continued, absentmindedly picking up his unused spoon and flipping it between his thumb and index finger. “He came from money and my family was…well, fucking poor. Like food-stamps, one-pair-of-shoes-per-year, three-kids-to-a-bedroom poor. I have absolutely no regrets about my childhood,” he explained hastily. “My family was happy. My parents worked hard. We played board games together and went to the park frequently. My mom always managed to find these free events we could attend downtown and my dad was a wiz with coupons. It never struck me to be self-conscious or embarrassed about not having money. It didn’t really matter… until I started dating Aaron.”

Enjolras’ chest felt tight. He wished he was better at physical touch so he could indulge the strange impulse to reach out and take Grantaire’s hand. Instead, he wove his own fingers together and rested them on the table.

“At first, Aaron didn’t care at all either. We’d poke fun at his unnecessarily huge house and lavish monthly vacations and pompous friends. Not that all of his friends were dicks. But some of them were. And when they degraded me because of my clothes or social status in general, Aaron would stand up for me. But his parents made it very clear they didn’t think I was good enough for Aaron. They’d ignore me when they could or make snide remarks that… I don’t know… I guess they thought I was too unintelligent to decipher?” He released a short, bitter laugh. “I remember one time I was over when I was… maybe a junior? And I said I wanted to be an artist. His dad just fucking laughed at me and _literally_ replied, ‘How quaint. And what will you do for money?’”

When Grantaire sighed, it sounded shaky and laced with emotion. Enjolras’ chest ached again, and he shook his head incredulously. “That’s horrible.”

Grantaire shrugged. “That’s how it kept going. Through senior year. And then it began to change, because those were no longer just things I was hearing from Aaron’s parents, but also Aaron himself. I didn’t notice at first, because I was so blindly infatuated with him. But he randomly would bring up questions about ‘when I was going to get my life together’ and ‘why hadn’t I applied for a _real_ college yet?’ Those discussions started turning into fights. And I found myself,” he blushed but continued, “crying, to be honest, at least once a week. However, we stayed together. Me, trying to do what I could to appease him and fit into his world. Him, claiming he ‘only wanted the best for me.’ But I couldn’t give up the desire to be an artist. That was me. At the very core. Also,” he grinned, providing much-needed levity to the palpable pall between them, “Eponine wouldn’t let me. She had a plan. She was going to act and I was going to paint and someday, after I finished two years at community college, we’d live in New York together.”

“And you did,” Enjolras murmured.

“And we did,” Grantaire nodded slowly. “But first. The Night. Eponine’s opening for _Cabaret_. So, here’s what happened,” he shifted his body so he was leaning against the wall next to their booth, his leg bent and his boot resting on the seat. “Aaron and I were supposed to be attending together. But I decided to go over to his house early so I could take him out to eat at some fancy restaurant he liked. Really trying to blend into his world, you know? Long story short, I got there. He was with another guy. And he…he didn’t even seem upset about me finding out. Honestly. All he said, by way of explanation was, ‘We’ve been drifting apart, and you knew that.’ We still haven’t talked since that day.”

A few seconds of heavy silence passed as Enjolras processed the story and Grantaire picked at a piece of dry paint on the back of his hand. Finally, he looked up at Enjolras, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark with distant sadness but also a tinge of regret. “That night, at the party, last year. Combeferre had been talking about you more and more to us, about your academic achievements and your drive and ambition, and it reminded me a little of Aaron. I felt on guard. And then, you walked in, looking,” he hesitated, then laughed lightly and shrugged, “honestly, looking like something that belonged in a fucking art gallery. And with this air of confidence and aloofness. Dressed kind of pretentiously. It was a trigger.”

Enjolras nodded slowly, finally understanding and being able to plot a clear line from Point A to Point B—and now Point C as well.

“I was trying to…or did _want_ to talk to you, not harangue you, but obviously,” he sighed, brushing back his bangs and looking at Enjolras’ eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re not Aaron. Not in the least.”

Enjolras cleared his throat, now feeling like he had his own explaining to do. Grantaire had also just bestowed on Enjolras the lofty gift of being shown another, more intimate side of the young man, and Enjolras sort of wanted to repay in kind.

“My parents were both raised in the church,” he said by way of introduction. Grantaire’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but he remained patiently silent as Enjolras had before. “Really conservative, toxically evangelical. One of those situations where wealth is viewed as god rewarding the so-called holy believers, and everyone judges and criticizes each other behind closed doors. My mother was 18 when she married my father. He was 15 years older than her. But her parents pushed her into it because he was such a ‘godly man’ and it was her god-ordained responsibility to get married and be a wife and mother as soon as possible. And my father _was_ incredibly wealthy,” Enjolras admitted ruefully. “We lived in a huge house and I went to private Christian school. It was awful in many ways, but I also learned Greek and Latin, so there’s that. But my parents,” he looked down at his hands, feeling uncomfortable under Grantaire’s thoughtful gaze, “things between them were horrible. Actually, let me rephrase that…. My father was—is—a controlling, narcissist who tormented my mother, financially, emotionally, and, eventually, physically. And as I approached… I guess it would’ve been 8 or 9… I started to see this happening. But my mother,” Enjolras’ eyes began to sting. He hadn’t cried in years. _I’m not doing this tonight, in some shady diner, across the table from Grantaire_. Instead, he grabbed his glass of water and took a long drink. Grantaire watched but didn’t say anything. However, Enjolras couldn’t help noticing his eyes were shiny.

Feeling calm once more, Enjolras continued, speaking quickly to wrap up his portion of this random and profoundly personal storytelling period. “My mother was the strongest, most incredible woman in the world. She worked tirelessly. She took classes and read books and, through persistence and tenacity, came to realize the oppression of the church and my father and everything they’d led her to believe about herself. One night, when I was 10, she came into my room, with a packed bag in her hand, and we left to live with my grandmother. My dad, of course, found us. And he’d show up all the time. Cursing and trying to break down my mother and accusing her of all variety of deadly sins. Damning her to hell unless she returned to him. Honestly, I think he was mostly just worried about his reputation. He was a deacon,” Enjolras chewed his lip for a second, wondering if he should disclose the next part. Feeling oddly safe knowing Grantaire was on the receiving end, he did resume. “My father refused to give her a divorce, so she didn’t get his money. At all. Our entire lifestyle changed but mostly, above everything, we were finally at peace. My mother, my grandma, and I. For a couple years.”

“Then what happened?” Grantaire asked, his voice strained.

“She died. When I was 12. In a car accident,” Enjolras swallowed back the tears that were once more threatening to surface. “But she didn’t leave me without anything. Clever woman that she was, she had been steadily investing in a college education savings plan for me, behind my father’s back for the most part, from the time I was born. She said she knew it was the one place she could save money for me that my father couldn’t touch, even if they were still legally married. That, combined with the cumulative interest and some scholarships, was enough to pay for my tuition at NYU.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and slowly rubbed a hand over them. “Fuck.”

“I do take education seriously. I know I do,” Enjolras acknowledged simply. “But that’s what she left me, you know? That was her legacy. Making sure I could afford to receive a quality education at a reputable university. She never got a chance to recognize her full potential, because of a horribly legalistic church and this fucking patriarchal society and a system that inherently oppresses marginalized individuals,” Enjolras stopped short, realizing he was about to mount his well-worn soapbox. Grantaire was more than well acquainted with his socio-political views by this point. “It’s her legacy. And I have to continue it. But not a day goes by that I wouldn't gladly exchange the money my mother left me for one more day with her.”

“Well, I am a total asshole,” Grantaire stated emphatically.

“You didn’t know,” Enjolras shrugged a shoulder.

“Stop it, Enjolras,” Grantaire demanded, firmly but tenderly. “I judged you. Based on my own issues—”

“Which also are completely valid, given what you experienced,” Enjolras interjected.

Grantaire exhaled a soft laugh. “Hmmm,” he pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips and thought for a moment. “Can we maybe try to forget about that night? Altogether? And what a terrible prat I was?”

“Sure,” Enjolras smiled. He hadn’t talked about his mother in ages. Maybe once last year with Combeferre, briefly and not as detailed. He would’ve thought the experience would cause excruciating agony. Like re-opening a wound. And there was pain certainly—a dense, gray, sorrow-flavored pain—but there was also relief, and lightness, and renewed affection for the woman snatched from life too quickly.

They finished eating, speaking on cheerier topics like books and their favorite artwork, and then caught a cab back to campus. This time, Enjolras didn’t think to question it when Grantaire walked beside him as they trudged to their respective dorms.

“The one thing I’ll say against New York,” Grantaire mused, his face upturned, “is that I miss the sky.”

“The sky?”

“Or, the stars, I guess. Not that we saw much of them in Chicago either. Maybe that’s why I still marvel at their beauty.” His lips, lightly chapped and reddened by the cold, were set in a gentle smile. Enjolras couldn’t help but stare at them. “I went to Arizona once when I was a kid. And I sat outside all night, gazing at the sky, just mesmerized, and trying to find all these constellations I’d read about. It’s the most divine piece of artwork in existence.”

“Your eyes are amazing,” Enjolras stated, realizing the moment after he spoke how the words sounded and how they could easily be misconstrued. Sure enough, Grantaire looked at him with amused surprise written all over his face. “I mean,” Enjolras quickly explained, embarrassment warming him to the core, “the way you see things. And not only that, but the manner in which you interpret them and discern them. Creating castles in the clouds and pillars in the sand. That’s a gift, I think.”

He was glad they were at his building so he had a reason to stop talking. Grantaire, shockingly, was silent, though his cheeks were bright pink— _likely from the cold,_ Enjolras reasoned. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was nearly 2 a.m.

“Good god,” he muttered. “At least my final isn’t until 3 tomorrow. I should have a chance to study before then.”

“Sorry to keep you out so late,” Grantaire carded his fingers through his hair, before stuffing his hand in the pocket of his jacket.

“I chose to stay out,” Enjolras assured him.

“I’m also sorry,” Grantaire added, his expression turning impish, “that I ruined your chance to get laid.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Poor old… what’s his name again?”

Enjolras shrugged. He honestly couldn’t remember. Something with an M. “I kind of feel like a dick.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire dismissively waved his hand. “No doubt he’s boning someone else by now.”

Enjolras couldn’t help laughing. “Thanks a lot. Makes me feel special.”

“That’s what I mean,” Grantaire also chuckled, trying to explain as best he could, despite how irrational his behavior might have seemed earlier. “It wasn’t about _you_. And it wouldn’t have been about _you_ when you were having sex with him.”

“I get it,” Enjolras threw up his hands just to prevent a potential repeat of their prior conversation. He also really needed to not hear Grantaire say “sex” right now. “It’s fine. There’ll be another opportunity to ‘get laid’ at some point, I’m sure. I’m not in a rush. Just an experiment.”

“Well,” Grantaire shifted his bag on his shoulder, “do what you have to.”

Enjolras shook his head in amusement, and then pulled out his keys to unlock his door. “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Sleep well, Enjolras,” Grantaire replied, lifting a hand in farewell. However, after taking a few steps, he turned back around, his face full of mischief as he called out, “And just in case you’re still wondering—I would say ‘yes.’ But I require an official request.”

With that, he walked away.

* * *

The following night, Enjolras sat on the edge of his bed. Every nerve in his body felt alive and raw. It was 9:39 p.m. His train north was set to leave at 7:25 the next morning. He had no finals to study for. No colleagues or peers to contact about school- or club-related activities, as everyone had transitioned to holiday mode and was virtually unavailable and unresponsive. No emails to send or projects to research.

Not as if it mattered anyway. He didn’t have enough attention to devote to those pursuits at the moment anyhow. Enjolras had one thing on his mind. One undisclosed yet unshakeable desire.

He looked down at his phone. He’d been sitting here in this exact position, spine straight, holding the device in his lap, for the better part of a half-hour.

Enjolras had confronted innumerable high-stakes situations, both in his academic career and in his fledgling foray into activism. Never, ever had he experienced this kind of trepidation, though. It felt as if embers were burning beneath his skin, afflicting his whole body with a vague sense of prickling urgency. 

His phone now read 9:41 p.m. Was it too late, he wondered? But that seemed par for the course, from what he understood. It wasn’t unheard of to text a friend at night to… _get together_ …right? They were in college, after all.

He sucked in a deep breath. 9:42 p.m.

Not giving himself another minute to doubt, he quickly pulled up Grantaire’s contact information, typed in a few words and pressed send.

_This is me asking you—officially._

Less than a moment had passed when his phone chimed. With his heart in his throat, he looked down again.

_Give me 20 minutes._


	5. Turning, Turning

_Give me 20 minutes._

Enjolras jumped to his feet, unsure whether to feel terrified or elated. This was good. It was helpful. He would do this once and then he’d be cleansed of all residual desire for Grantaire. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

 _It doesn’t matter now_ , Enjolras concluded, feeling emboldened and determined now that the choice was made. He was a man of action. And this equaled, at the very least, doing _something_.

He’d already showered that evening, but he brushed his teeth again and rinsed off his face. He didn’t know how any of this worked. If he should put on real clothes, or if his white undershirt and navy-blue basketball shorts would suffice. The point was for them to all come off anyway, right? He finally decided to change into jeans. Sure, this was nothing more than a booty call, plain and simple, and Enjolras could resolutely look that fact in the face without flinching, but this being the first— _and only_ —time he planned to liaise with Grantaire, he wanted to maintain some decorum.

Frustrated by his impulse to check his phone every two minutes, he poured himself a glass of water and settled on the couch with a book. It could’ve been minutes later—or more like hours, as it felt to Enjolras—when he heard a knock on his door. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he granted himself a few seconds to solidify his resolve before going to answer it.

If at any point in his teenage years Enjolras could’ve conjured the ideal image of the person he wanted to give him his first taste of sex, he was pretty damn near sure this would be it. Grantaire stood in the doorway, his leather jacket fastened up, a knit cap doing its best to suppress the wild curls beneath. His thumbs were hooked in the front pockets of his skintight black jeans, his boots planted a solid foot apart in a stance that would have spoken of absolute dominance and confidence if not for the questioning look on his beautiful face.

“Come in,” Enjolras said. The words came out far softer and more tepid than he planned. Where was one to begin in this sort of situation?

“Enjolras,” Grantaire started, stepping inside and unzipping his jacket.

“Just sex… right?” Enjolras interjected, wanting to reaffirm the parameters of this encounter upfront. It seemed prudent to do so. 

Grantaire swallowed visibly, nodding his agreement. “Just sex.”

Enjolras took Grantaire’s coat and laid it gently over a chair by the table in their kitchenette. He took a second to appreciate the well-worn dark gray shirt printed with The Shins logo that clung to Grantaire’s broad shoulders.

“My room’s this way,” Enjolras motioned with his head to an open doorway. It suddenly dawned on him that Grantaire would be seeing the inside of his room tonight, and that felt like a wildly personal and unnerving thing. You could learn almost anything you wanted about a person by their bedroom, their décor and knickknacks, or lack thereof. Whether their bed was made or if there were clothes on the floor or the state of their bookcase.

Grantaire’s eyes followed the direction Enjolras indicated. He seemed in deep contemplation and Enjolras wondered if he was having second thoughts. If that was the case, far be it from Enjolras to ask someone to quell even the smallest sliver of doubt. If Grantaire didn’t want to do this—

But that clearly was not the content of his inner deliberations, for he no longer appeared nervous or tentative. Rather, his expression was intense, purposeful, as he closed the space between them in a few short steps.

“Just sex,” he repeated quietly, wrapping one hand along Enjolras’ jaw and the other on his upper arm and smoothly pulling their bodies flush against one another. Enjolras was glad he had opted for jeans, for even these fairly innocent machinations sent blood rushing to his cock. The response only intensified when Grantaire paused, a breath away from Enjolras’ lips to murmur, “with you,” before kissing him fully on the mouth.

Enjolras had either forgotten how it felt to be kissed or Grantaire was exceptionally gifted with his lips. Either way, it surpassed even his most vivid fantasy, not least because it was _actually_ happening, and Grantaire was _real_ and he was _here_ and he was kissing Enjolras with such abandon and yet such precision it was almost impossible to believe there was not an iota of passion behind it.

Enjolras’ breath caught in his throat and the hair across every inch of his skin stood on end. The intimate contact, rare and elusive as it was, made him feel warm and alive and both hyper-aware yet unable to focus on anything but Grantaire’s lips, firm but pliant, moving against Enjolras’ own mouth and then with it as he slowly but surely found his ability to respond. The heat quickly turned wet and smooth, Grantaire’s tongue skimming along Enjolras’ upper lip, edging it’s way inside. He tasted just as Enjolras would’ve imagined—a little like whisky, a little like cinnamon, and a lot like sinful intoxication.

Enjolras couldn’t suppress a low moan from escaping as Grantaire deepened the kiss, alternating between rolling Enjolras’ lips between his own, licking against his tongue and even gently dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin. Was kissing supposed to feel this good, this overpowering? Enjolras wondered, breathing in deeply to ensure his senses were fully invaded by everything that was and nothing that wasn’t Grantaire. _Grantaire_. The way he smelled— _like leather and heady cologne_ —the way he felt— _steady and strong_ —the way he tasted— _the most disorienting elixir_.

Grantaire left one hand firmly planted along Enjolras’ jaw, the tips of his fingers brushing at loose tendrils of golden hair, while the other dropped lower to grip his waist, keeping their bodies pinned together. Every inch of Enjolras that touched Grantaire, although fully clothed, felt raw and sensitive, so much so it would have been unbearable if weren’t so exhilarating, the physical manifestation of risk and vulnerability and grappling with the freedom of a fleeting moment.

Enjolras' own hands rested ever-so-lightly on Grantaire’s hips, not to feel them or explore them—not yet—but to simply keep himself grounded and, more importantly, upright as he let himself get thoroughly wrecked by Grantaire’s hungry kiss until he was left positively breathless.

After a few moments, Grantaire pulled back. His intense hazel eyes were once again filled with questions, along with something darker and wilder. He carried his gaze over Enjolras’ now swollen lips and flushed cheeks, looking for affirmation that this was permissible, if not prudent; satisfying, if not smart.

The air was still and quiet except for the deep, haggard breaths passing between them. Enjolras could barely track a cognizant thought but he knew without a doubt he bore no regrets. He had already decided he would wait until tomorrow to get his focus back on track. For tonight, he wanted this. And he wanted this with Grantaire.

Wishing to communicate as much to erase the subtle apprehension tainting Grantaire’s gaze, Enjolras brushed his thumb against the other young man’s worried brow and then dragged it down the elegant curve of his cheekbone, leaving it there so he could clasp the beautiful face, the recent haunt of his forbidden dreams, and explore it. He stared brazenly into Grantaire’s eyes, wanting to savor the realness of this encounter, to acknowledge it was happening. More specifically, happening between the two of them. Grantaire looked back without flinching, letting the moment linger briefly, before turning his head to kiss Enjolras’ palm, then the corner of his jaw, his cheek, and finally his lips once more.

“Okay,” he sighed, leaning back against the kitchen table. His hands remained tight on Enjolras’ waist, as if Grantaire was afraid the other young man might vanish at the slightest loss of contact. “We should probably discuss some ground rules.”

“Is that necessary?” Enjolras asked. He immediately felt embarrassed about the naivety of the question. This was his first time casually hooking up with someone—or doing _anything_ with someone. Grantaire surely did this all the time, so he would, of course, know the logistics. If Enjolras had wanted to find himself in a situation where he was forced to resign the lead to someone else, this was certainly it, and it made him feel nervous and irritated and enraptured all at once.

Grantaire was relatively gentle, however, when he simply responded, without a hint of mockery in his voice, “I think so. Even if this is just about sexual gratification, it’s still…intimate. I’m not worried about it affecting our friendship or making things _awkward_ between us or anything. I fully expect it will be business as usual tomorrow—or I guess, when we see each other after winter break. But tonight, in this space, I want to do this the right way,” Grantaire leaned in once more, his warm breath encasing Enjolras’ ear and sending a chill down his spine as he continued softly, “And that means knowing what you want,” his hand moved slowly and firmly down from Enjolras’ waist to his hip, “what you like,” around to the front, fingers lightly stroking Enjolras’ thigh, “ and what you’ll let me do to you.” The side of his hand grazed purposefully along the growing erection straining Enjolras’ jeans, eliciting an audible gasp from the blond. Humming softly, Grantaire slipped a finger into Enjolras’ beltloop, pulled their hips tightly together, and began planting firm, warm kisses down his neck.

Enjolras let his eyes fall close. He knew he was trembling. He knew his breath was coming out in short, soft gasps. But though he vaguely recognized his vulnerability being laid bare in this way, he was utterly consumed with the sensation of Grantaire gently licking and sucking at his pulse point through sensitive skin, not to mention the other young man’s enticing hardness pressing into his lower abdomen. There were no means by which he could possibly rein in these involuntary reactions. He was thoroughly trapped and at the mercy of his own insurmountable desire at this point.

“I…I don’t know,” Enjolras finally managed to stammer, choking on the end of the sentence when Grantaire lightly bit down, further abusing the skin of his neck.

Grantaire pulled back, repeating, “You don’t know?”

“What I like,” Enjolras clarified.

“But you’re comfortable with this?”

“Hardly comfortable,” Enjolras muttered wryly, feeling his cheeks grow warm, “but I like it. I’m okay with it.”

“And sex? How do you feel about that?”

“ _I_ asked _you_ here, didn’t I?” Enjolras stated, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes. “I can handle whatever you give me.”

“Okay, I’m sure that’s true,” Grantaire huffed in response to Enjolras’ trademark bravado, “but that’s not the point.” His right hand was still looped over Enjolras’ forearm, his thumb slowly brushing the skin in a circular motion. “As much as I would simply _adore_ seeing what it takes to bring you, Enjolras, to your knees, I’m not here to push your limits—not during your first time anyhow,” he grinned mischievously, “But I do want to help you… _relieve your stress_ , so to speak. And we still haven’t talked specifics.” Momentarily preoccupied, he cast his eyes down, pursing his lips in thought. When he looked back up, he stated bluntly, “I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”

Enjolras cocked his head, confused.

“But,” Grantaire continued quickly, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t _dying_ to suck you off.”

 _God damn_. Enjolras swallowed a large gulp of air, his cock now painfully hard and throbbing. “O-okay.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire smirked, evidently enjoying this reaction to his bold, unexpected words. “I’m going to need a bit more confirmation than that.”

Slightly riled by Grantaire’s mild taunting and wanting to regain at least some ground, Enjolras lifted his chin and looked him squarely in his eyes. “Oh really? You need me to hear me say, ‘Yes, Grantaire…will you suck my cock _please_?’”

It was Grantaire’s turn to inhale sharply, eyes wide and darkened with unmistakable desire. “Holy fuck, Enjolras,” he muttered. After another deep breath, he cleared his throat and responded breezily, “That’s not what I meant, you smartass, and you know it. I need explicit consent…. We _both_ need explicit consent. However,” his arms snaked around Enjolras’ waist, one hand brazenly dropping low enough to grip the blond’s firm ass and pull him closer, “since you asked _so_ nicely, Enjolras… I’d be fucking delighted.”

Flashing his beautiful, infuriating smile, Grantaire once more claimed Enjolras’ mouth with unmitigated fervor. The next few minutes were a blur. Enjolras was starting to find a rhythm within the kiss, a thread of liberation. It gifted him with the boldness to make his own nonverbal claims on Grantaire’s body, first clenching a fistful of his luscious dark curls, then laying his palm flat against the brunet’s chest and pushing their intertwined bodies closer to his bedroom. Through the entanglement of tongues and lips, hands and limbs, the shortening breaths and increasing moans, they eventually made it to Enjolras’ bed where Grantaire unceremoniously shoved the other young man flat on his back.

Grantaire seemed ready to climb onto the bed after Enjolras when he suddenly faltered. His bottom lip was gripped between his teeth, his eyes bright and glimmering, reflecting what appeared to be awe-filled disbelief, as he slowly and appreciatively moved them from Enjolras’ flushed face to the rise and fall of his chest and the thin strip of exposed skin between the edge of his shirt and the top of his jeans.

Immediately concerned, Enjolras started to sit up but Grantaire pushed him back with his outstretched arm, “Wait,” he breathed, “just stay there…for a moment…please.” Enjolras felt raw and exposed under Grantaire’s gaze, but he complied, hoping desperately that Grantaire wasn’t experiencing second thoughts… or worse, regret. After another couple seconds of Grantaire simply absorbing the sight before him, Enjolras, growing perplexed, arched an eyebrow, “What is it?”

As if awakening from a daze, Grantaire inhaled and gave a small shake of his head. “Nothing. I just can’t…,” he paused, apparently thinking better of what he was about to reveal. Breathing out an incredulous little laugh, he returned his gaze to Enjolras’ face and stated simply but earnestly, “You’re gorgeous, Enjolras. … You don’t know how gorgeous you are.”

If there had been a hint of self-consciousness to the declaration, as if Grantaire was intimidated by his personal estimation of Enjolras or somehow thought himself undeserving of it, Enjolras would’ve been let down considerably, even turned off. But Grantaire, though reverent, was not self-conscious in the least. He looked sure of himself, like he knew what he was up against, like he deserved to be in the ring, fighting for this magnificent prize, and he was proud of it. Enjolras was gorgeous. And Grantaire was going to have him. Perceiving as much, Enjolras was set alight with a fresh wave of arousal, which intensified tenfold when Grantaire, seemingly compelled to prove his point, put one knee on the bed beside Enjolras’ hip and swung his other leg over so he was straddling the blond.

Feeling Grantaire’s body close, _so close, so fucking close_ , once more, Enjolras couldn’t help canting his hips, desperately seeking pressure or even mere contact for his throbbing cock.

Grantaire chuckled slightly, his lips twisted in a mischievous smile. “My, my… so eager, Enjolras. You have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this.” He slid both his hands along Enjolras’ arms until they connected with his palms. “It’s fantastic,” he added, pushing Enjolras’ arms up and trapping them above his head and halo of golden hair.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras protested half-heartedly, although being held down beneath the weight of the other young man’s body, his wrists caught between Grantaire’s hands, was more wonderfully electrifying than he could’ve imagined.

“Mmm,” Grantaire groaned, once again assaulting Enjolras’ neck, kissing and licking and sucking, showing not the slightest restraint this time. With his lips still grazing the place where a bruise was starting to form, he murmured, “I wonder what else I can do to hear you say my name.”

His hands released Enjolras’ wrist so they could instead slide up under his shirt, along the rippled planes of his abdomen and chest, peeling off the piece of clothing along the way. Once Enjolras’ torso was bare, Grantaire wasted no time assailing the newly exposed skin with his hands and mouth. His fingernails were slightly sharp, and they left behind jagged trails of red as he dragged them roughly over Enjolras’ ribcage and down to the alluring jut of his hipbone. Something awakened within Enjolras, a delightfully humiliating lust tied directly to the mild pain. He wanted, _needed_ , more. More of Grantaire’s touch, whether tormenting or tender. Now free to do so, he wove his fingers into Grantaire’s hair, gripping more and more fiercely as the brunet moved from Enjolras’ shoulders to his stomach, worshiping each newly discovered aspect of his body along the way.

“Oh, fuck,” Enjolras exhaled through his clenched jaw as Grantaire’s warm, wet tongue brushed over his nipple. It was a sensation unlike anything he’d ever felt. Staggering and salacious. When Grantaire repeated the movement, again on that nipple and then moving to other, the sounds came out louder and needier. A violent shiver ran through Enjolras’ body and he was jolted past the point of trying, or even wanting, to exercise constraint. The only option he could see before him was to simply let go and _feel_ , which made him understand in a whole new way why Grantaire had encouraged him to do this with someone who, above all else, he trusted.

When Grantaire at last pinched one of Enjolras’ nipples between his teeth, making the blond writhe, it was chased by a guttural moan released into Enjolras’ chest. “Oh my God, Enjolras,” Grantaire growled. “You’re so sensitive. So responsive. It’s brilliant. I can’t even…” The sentence trailed off as he continued to nip lightly along Enjolras’ instinctively flexed stomach, down to the top of his jeans. The stubble on his jaw scratched along Enjolras’ skin, creating just one more tangy sweet sensation to join the barrage of others scrambling his brain and making his entire being feel like one giant, exposed nerve. It all just felt so fucking good.

Suddenly, Grantaire’s hands were nimbly working open the clasp on Enjolras’ jeans and pulling down the zipper. When he’d finished the task, Grantaire twisted his neck so he could look up at Enjolras. Shit, that face did something to Enjolras. It was his uncanny charm, the ever-devilish glint of his hazel eyes, the lines of his lips that twisted a thousand ways to give expression to the many moods that lurked beneath his indifferent exterior.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow archly. His wicked gaze could send Enjolras’ heart beating a mile a minute. “I want to see you, Enjolras… all of you,” there was the slightest upward inflection on the last word and Enjolras knew Grantaire was tactfully asking for permission. He nodded as best he could in his current state of blinding arousal, gently brushing his thumb over Grantaire’s plump bottom lip. God, he was so beautiful. Enjolras felt like he should probably say as much out loud, rather than merely stating it over and over again in his mind. Come to think of it, had he actually uttered anything yet to make sure Grantaire knew just how wonderful he looked? How intoxicatingly attractive he was? How badly Enjolras wanted him and how unusual and thoroughly terrifying that was?

As he was about to speak, and hopefully communicate some, _or any_ , variation of these assurances and revelations, the words were stopped short in his throat by the sight of Grantaire slowly hooking his fingers in Enjolras’ jeans and pulling them off, along with his briefs, in one smooth motion. The other young man’s mouth was moving gently, and though the word he repeated was silent, it was easily read from his lips. “Fuck….fuck…fuck…” An unbridled hunger shimmered in his eyes, strengthening as he took in the sight of Enjolras’ sinewy thighs, the dip where his leg joined his torso and, finally, his erect cock that arched out gracefully from a patch of dark blond curls.

Grantaire was still, his gaze locked on Enjolras’ body, a look of craving on his flushed face, his mouth hanging slightly open. Enjolras could hear the air leaving his lungs in deep exhales. After a second of impregnable tension, Enjolras murmured, “Touch me… please?”

Grantaire glanced up at Enjolras’ face, released a low, shuddery breath and complied. His first touch was tentative, his open palm simply running up Enjolras’ length, but it quickly turned more purposeful as his fingers wrapped around the hardened flesh.

“Good god,” Enjolras closed his eyes, shuddering and savoring how different Grantaire’s grasp was from his own. How much _better_. Actually, it belonged on a separate plane of existence altogether. Not too tight, not too soft. Just perfect, running up, down, back up and leisurely massaging over the head. “God, yes.”

It wasn’t going to take long. Enjolras knew that. It should have been a little embarrassing, but it wasn’t with Grantaire. Because he knew. He understood. And he didn’t care.

Forcing his eyes open so he could take a mental picture of this moment to relish in the future, Enjolras choked out, “Wait… Grantaire….”

Grantaire stopped, abruptly drawing back his hand. Enjolras missed his touch immediately. How could his cock, achingly hard and pulsing, survive without it? But he wanted something else first. “Would you take off your shirt?” Finding that brazen streak he relied on for virtually every other aspect of his life except this, he added suggestively, “I want to see if you’re as beautiful as I’ve imagined.”

“You’ve thought about this?” Grantaire sat back on his heels, his thighs still straddling Enjolras’ legs. He did a noticeably poor job suppressing a pleased smile.

Enjolras hesitated a second and then dared an honest response. “Yes.”

Biting down on his lip, Grantaire quickly yanked off the offending article of clothing and dropped it on the floor. Enjolras felt an immediate thrill of delight. _Yes_. It was his turn to check out Grantaire’s shoulders and chest, a bit thicker and broader than Enjolras’ own. Large portions of the flesh were covered in veins of colorful ink, vibrant against Grantaire’s pale skin. They formed large blocks of text and a few intricate images that cascaded down the right side of his chest and torso, disappearing into the rim of his snug black jeans. Enjolras wanted to study them, to investigate their significance and what secret, sacred piece of Grantaire each one represented. But not now.

He sat up and eagerly ran his hand over Grantaire’s shoulder, down one of his toned biceps. Unable to stop himself—and really, was there even a point in doing so?—he craned his neck to press a firm kiss to Grantaire’s collarbone while his other hand slipped around Grantaire’s waist to caress the cords of muscle running through his bare back and, _finally_ , feel up his ass.

“God, you are well fit,” Enjolras blurted out, groping Grantaire’s backside and finding it far exceeded his wildest expectations. Grantaire chuckled softly, throaty and low, his chest vibrating against Enjolras’ lips. He twisted a piece of Enjolras’ flaxen hair between his fingers. His other hand rested on Enjolras’ shoulder, helping him stay balanced without putting too much weight on Enjolras. “You think so?”

“It’s not really a matter of opinion, I don’t think,” Enjolras replied, tracing a finger over the flight of birds descending down across Grantaire’s left pec. The other hand remained firmly clasped around the sexy curve of Grantaire’s ass, his fingers pushing into the supple flesh. This was his one chance to do so. He sure as hell planned to milk it. 

“Honestly? I’d prefer if it was,” Grantaire placed both hands on either side of Enjolras’ face and leaned in, kissing him wantonly, all tongue and wet heat. Within a few seconds Enjolras was back to the state he had been in mere minutes before: Out of breath, mentally wrecked, and unbearably hard.

Without breaking his aggressive contact with Enjolras’ lips, Grantaire steadily pushed him back down onto the beige comforter. The kissing continued, more and more and more… and then it stopped. And Enjolras wanted to groan or curse in complaint. Until, suddenly, Grantaire’s glorious mouth was being put to a different use and— _Oh. My. God._

Enjolras wasn’t sure if he actually emitted a hoarse yelp or if it was only in his head. Everything was building up too much, too quickly. It was blinding and beautiful. And it didn’t help that Grantaire, in between licking and kissing Enjolras’ cock, was breathing out his own erotic venerations and reverent whispers of Enjolras’ name. “Fuck, Enjolras… you taste so good……you’re exquisite… I want you _so_ _bad_ , Enjolras…”

For someone constantly eyeing the future, trapped in a cycle of over-analyzing and over-thinking, it was strangely sublime being tethered to the present by the overpowering sensation of Grantaire’s lips wrapped around his cock. It was literally impossible for Enjolras to think about or do anything besides observe the way it looked and felt when Grantaire grazed his tongue up the length, from hilt to head, sparking—for the second time in one night—a stormy, seductive sensation unlike anything Enjolras had ever felt.

It was the sort of contradicting sensation that, on one hand, made you _literally_ want to die, so it would be the last thing you felt and nothing could ever ruin the memory. And yet, the desire to feel such perfection again was so powerful it could serve as sole motivation to continue to live.

Enjolras wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say or do, so he let his instincts take over. His hips thrust up, pushing his cock deeper into the succulent pull of Grantaire’s mouth. Fingers tightened in downy dark curls. Every muscle in his body tensed, lending aid to the coiling pressure deep inside his groin that was so familiar, yet the intensity so foreign. It was _never_ like this on own. Out of his mouth spilled the only words he was capable of forming at the moment, “Don’t stop…. Please, please… don’t stop…” _Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire.._.

From down in the region where his cock was being exquisitely sucked and his hips gripped so brutally it was sure to leave subtle bruises, a few words floated up to his ears. He heard the noise before he registered the meaning, and when he did, his chest constricted.

“You deserve this, Enjolras….you deserve to feel good.”

There was a release of emotion. Strange and unexpected. It rushed through him, winding through his limbs and pulling at his heart. Meanwhile, Grantaire’s nimble hands and sweet mouth had entirely engulfed the whole of his manhood. He could barely stammer out, “Grantaire…Oh, god… Grantaire…,” before crashing into a powerful, blinding climax, coming hard and draining his load into the other young man’s waiting throat. Grantaire didn’t let up the pressure, sucking softly and licking up the excess until Enjolras was truly spent.

He didn’t know if he actually passed out for a second, or if the descent from such an orgasm always felt like traveling back down a dark, all-encompassing tunnel. He vaguely perceived Grantaire wiping up his cock with his own gray shirt. The next second—or minute?—the brunet was lying beside Enjolras, gently kissing his cheek. Still in a fog, Enjolras nestled his head against Grantaire’s side, pressing his lips to the smooth tattooed skin and letting his palm rest against the brunet’s bare stomach. For several seconds, he laid there, savoring the erotic smell of Grantaire’s smoky cologne mixed with sweat and what he could only assume was his own private scent, mesmerized by the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. Grantaire’s fingers listlessly carded through his hair. It was all so calming, but in Enjolras’ voracious mind, the experiment was far from over, his curiosity not yet satiated.

Once his breath returned to normal and he felt the energy to peel open his eyes, Enjolras moved his hand with purpose, down over Grantaire’s navel, and began undoing the zipper on his pants. Or trying. It was difficult with one hand and the jeans were _so damn tight_. Not that Enjolras was complaining.

“Wait, Enjolras,” Grantaire captured his wrist. “Hang on. You don’t have to do this.”

Enjolras pushed himself up to his elbow so he could look down at Grantaire’s face. His hand easily broke free from Grantaire’s half-hearted grasp, moving up to gently cup his chin. “Grantaire. I know I don’t _have_ to. Obviously. But I want to. May I?”

Grantaire could be taken aback for a second, as evidenced by his slightly widened eyes. But clever retorts were second nature to him, and therefore, never far behind. “Normally,” he replied, his voice evil and erotic all at once, “I’d wait to see if I couldn't make you to beg me for it….and, hell, I’d give anything to witness that… but I’ll make an exception tonight, since I understand you haven’t been properly _educated_ in that way yet.”

Enjolras was uncertain whether Grantaire knew what kind of impact his words would have. Maybe causing that impact was his precise intention. Either way, Enjolras was himself shocked—for _several_ reasons—to feel his cock jerk back to life. He hadn’t thought that possible after the divine blow job Grantaire had delivered. And he’d never admit to being aroused by the idea of kneeling before Grantaire, bound up, while the brunet taunted and tortured him in all kinds of sinfully delicious ways.

He could barely bring himself to admit it, at present. All he could attempt right now was trying to quell his own renewed desire in favor of redoubling his effort to undo Grantaire’s pants. Upon success, Enjolras eagerly yanked them down. Grantaire lifted his hips to help, which added an extra touch of obscenity when his impressive cock was released, jutting out proudly inches from Enjolras’ face. Enjolras sucked in his breath. For a second, he was tempted to cross the space and take the perfectly formed member into his mouth. He wondered what Grantaire tasted like. Wonderful, no doubt. But before he could indulge the impulse, some unidentified part of himself slammed on the brakes. He couldn’t do it. He wanted to. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Maybe he simply couldn’t stand the thought of being bad at something, or even potentially failing at it. Or maybe… maybe it was something else. Regardless, he didn’t have time to analyze the strange response now. Grantaire’s tantalizing cock was sitting right there, long and thick and flushed. A visual token of lust. At the very least, Enjolras would let himself touch it. Which he did. Tentatively. No so much watching his elegant fingers as they wrapped around the flesh, but instead gazing at Grantaire’s face to observe his reaction.

With a pang of self-gratification, he watched as Grantaire’s head tipped back into the mattress, his jaw slowly dropping open, his full lips wet and glossy. On one side, he clenched a handful of the comforter. The other was gripped on the arm Enjolras was using to support himself.

“Oh, damn,” Grantaire moaned.

Enjolras quickly found a familiar rhythm, altering it here and there from what would normally work for him to instead follow the path of what seemed to elicit the most erotic moans and whispered curses from Grantaire. As he gathered speed, using the quick, firm pulls that Grantaire evidently favored, he leaned over the brunet’s taut body. Grantaire’s head was still tossed back, exposing the long, graceful column of his neck and giving Enjolras a captivating target. He let his carnal cravings be his guide, and they courageously led him from kissing Grantaire’s tremulous lips to wantonly sucking and biting Grantaire’s skin, all the way from his jaw down to his clavicle, until it was covered with vulgar red marks. He even captured Grantaire earlobe in his mouth and gently rolled it between his tongue and teeth. Grantaire must’ve liked it, for at that moment, his engorged cock pulsed. “Oh. Fuck. Fuck… Enjolras… fuck… Enjolras….Enje…”

Next thing he knew, Enjolras’ hand was covered in sticky, warm cum. Not his own. Grantaire’s. And it was sexy and mesmerizing and satisfying. Almost as satisfying as the look on Grantaire’s face, eyes squeezed tight, teeth driving into his lip, a crimson blush spread along his cheeks and neck.

Sustaining his watchful gaze so he didn’t miss a delicious moment of Grantaire riding out his orgasm, Enjolras flexed his cramped hand and then touched it against his lips, licking one of his fingers when he felt curiously compelled to have Grantaire’s taste in his mouth.

“Fuck…. _Enjolras_ ,” Grantaire exclaimed, panting through the tail end of his orgasm. “You… you can’t do things… like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because… that image will be stuck… in my head… for _days_ ,” Grantaire’s chuckle was gravelly and trapped between his effort to suck in deep draughts of air. “And I’ll just want to do this again and again.”

_Would that be so bad?_

Enjolras answered his own internal musing with a very definitive, _Yes. It would. One-night stand. Remember?_

Instead, he shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry. Just wanted to taste you.”

Grantaire groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, but he was still grinning lazily. “Yeah. Not helping.”

What could Enjolras say in response that would be safe? What exactly were you supposed to do at this point? He sat there, a bit awkwardly, suddenly feeling self-conscious about his nakedness. Luckily, he had Grantaire, who was more than happy to take the lead, and who did so without being asked. Looking up at Enjolras’ downturned face, he affectionally grabbed the blond’s arm and pulled his body toward him. “C’mere.”

Next thing he knew, Enjolras was tucked under Grantaire’s arm, his cheek resting against the brunet’s chest. He thought about resisting for a moment. This surely wasn’t appropriate for what was supposed to be a careless, meaningless rendezvous. But he also couldn’t deny that it felt rather nice.

Plus, he was starting to drift off, and somehow Grantaire’s presence was making that process easier. Probably because his fingers were embedded in Enjolras’ hair and gently massaging his scalp. Plus, the sound of languid inhales and exhales and the remnants of his cologne or aftershave or deodorant, or whatever it was, were strangely soothing, lulling Enjolras into a deep, unfamiliar pool of serenity. Sometime moments later—at least as far Enjolras could tell—Grantaire shifted beneath him, moving Enjolras off his chest and placing his head gently onto a pillow. He then quietly walked out of the room, buckling his pants as he went.

Enjolras wondered if he was leaving. Maybe that was normal? Wasn't there some coarse phrase he’d heard somewhere: “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am”? Maybe this was that.

He wondered if he cared. After all, his pillow felt luxurious against his cheek right now. _But not as good as Grantaire’s chest_ , he mused, half-conscious at this point.

But Grantaire had not left. Because he was back. Holding a glass of water, which he set on the nightstand. Enjolras drowsily moved to sit up so he could properly see Grantaire out, like the god-damn adults they were, but Grantaire stopped him.

“It’s okay. Just stay here.” He was brushing Enjolras’ hair back from his face and pulling the comforter out from under Enjolras so he could lay it on top of him instead. “Your alarm set?”

“Yes,” Enjolras responded. His heart was racing for some reason, even as exhaustion started overtaking him.

“You think you’ll be able to sleep?”

“Mmhmm,” Enjolras’ eyes felt like lead. He should probably audibly cede the win to Grantaire at this point and acknowledge he was right. Sex did help. Like Grantaire said. But he couldn’t muster the energy.

“Okay. Good. Take care, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered tenderly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his lips and another to his temple.

As Grantaire started heading out, stopping to grab his shirt and slip it over his head, Enjolras remembered he had something he actually did want to say. He forced his eyes open. “Grantaire…”

The brunet paused, his hand hovering near the light switch. “Yes?”

“That is my opinion, as well as objective truth,” Enjolras said, trying to put his jumbled thoughts into words. It must not have worked, for Grantaire’s brow furrowed. Enjolras wet his lips with his tongue and tried again, blunter this time. “I think you’re incredibly hot.”

Grantaire blushed. “Good to know.”

“Also,” Enjolras adjusted his pillow under his head, hesitating and trying to determine exactly how he wanted this to end. There were several things he wished to say. _Be safe. Text me when you get back to your dorm. Let’s do this again sometime. This was unbelievable_. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, all that came out with a simple, albeit earnest, “Thank you…very much.”

Grantaire winked. “Any time.”

Enjolras tried taking a moment to assess what just happened and how he felt about it. But his effort was to no avail. Before he could hear the click of the door shutting behind Grantaire, he was fast asleep.


	6. In the Darkness

So, perhaps Enjolras wasn’t completely honest with Grantaire about his financial situation. The truth was that up until a year ago, his only real inheritance _was_ the money set aside by his mother for his education. Other than that, he was categorically destitute, except for the occasional $50 and $100 checks that his doting grandmother sent every few months. Then she unexpectedly passed away, leaving Enjolras with a three-bedroom brick ranch-style home on Hawthorne Avenue to go along with the emotional pain of her absence. Built in the 1960s and rarely, if ever, renovated, the house had a small, clunky kitchen and fading carpets and the type of vintage décor that is more repulsive than charming.

Enjolras’ plan was to sell the property, collect the estimated value of $195,000, and use the money to fund a one-year study abroad program at the University of Paris that his academic advisor suggested he look into. As for the rest of it, he had no idea. A part of him wanted to simply give it away—he’d seen what excessive money could do to people’s morals—but he also wondered if it was worth holding onto and investing into the organization he hoped to eventually establish.

Regardless, before any of that could happen, he had to face the unpleasant and daunting task of purging the only childhood home with which he had pleasant memories, his final link to his mother and grandmother, and prepare it to go on the market. He had attempted to start the process in the summer, but when all was said and done, he’d spent the majority of those oppressively hot months in the basement and attic, sifting through boxes full of random documents, precious mementos and a whole bunch of useless shit.

Now, he returned to Albany with a renewed passion to simply get the job finished so he could move on. From the mess. From the memories.

The first few days of winter break, he vigorously cleaned the entire house and made a few minor repairs. He was no carpenter, but he had a knack for picking up skills quickly. During those long hours alone in the house, working steadily through the silence, his mind seemed hell-bent on reliving his evening with Grantaire in shockingly precise detail.

At first, he tried to suppress the thoughts—of Grantaire’s soft lips, his beautifully tattooed body, and, _good god_ , that cock—but when you’re alone for days on end, with only a few random store clerks and servers providing sporadic company, your brain pretty much does whatever the hell it wants. And Enjolras’ brain wanted to remind him of Grantaire. Constantly. Probably not least because he had a diminishing but still visible bruise on the left side of his neck that served as a symbol of the depravity he had luxuriated in for those few unmentionable hours.

Eventually, it wasn’t only the physical recollections coming to mind. Other platonic but touching memories kept emerging at random: Grantaire’s zeal when he described how Michelangelo used forced perspective to make his 14-foot statue of David look proportionate when viewed at ground level, or when he carried on about some abstract expressionist painter named Helen Frankenthaler being entirely underrated. How Grantaire’s deep affection for his older sister surfaced when describing their inventive ways of passing time holed up in their small family home during Chicago’s bitterly cold winters. How Enjolras could drop terms like “Keynesian mixed economy,” “Bolshevism” and “biopower” into conversation without Grantaire skipping a beat or asking for explanation.

It was nice, he decided, to have a friend like that. Similar to Combeferre in some ways, but incredibly distinct in others. For one, Enjolras had no desire to touch Combeferre sexually. And judging from the ample and regular attention he received, the man was undeniably good-looking. But there had been blessed few people in the span of his life for whom Enjolras felt genuine, organic desire. Enjolras didn’t have a clue why it was different with Grantaire. Sure, he had a fantastic ass and beautiful, observant, downright soul-penetrating eyes, but there had to be more—some enigmatic, indelible quality that Enjolras couldn’t quite pinpoint. Some reason he was causing Enjolras to behave with such uncharacteristic hedonism. 

Fortunately, these exhausting and unsatisfying musings were mostly put on hold over the next few days, which served up a blur of contacting the real estate agent, showing the property to a series of prospective buyers and, finally, accepting a satisfactory offer. By Christmas Eve, he was out of work and alone in a sterile, memory-stripped home that he would no longer own by the end of the month.

What he did have, however, was a series of text messages sent from his father throughout the day. Oh, joy. They ranged from “Where are you?” and “I’m disappointed you didn’t tell us you weren’t coming” to “We are missing you here in Scarsdale” – “we” meaning him, the woman he’d married six years ago and his horrendously WASPish parents. As always, Enjolras deleted them one by one after first allowing them to fuel the bitterness that made his self-inflicted isolation feel justified, if not necessary.

By the following morning, Christmas Day, he’d received eight such text messages. When his phone chimed again as he was washing his cereal bowl after breakfast, he groaned with frustration and cursed himself. Why didn’t he just block the number? Why didn’t he get a _new_ one?

Quickly drying his hands and throwing the towel onto the counter, he snatched up his phone, ready to at least put it on silent, but his motion stopped short, along with his anger. The message wasn’t from his father. It was from Grantaire. Or rather “R,” as Enjolras had labeled the contact in his phone, borrowing Eponine’s nickname for the other young man.

_R: Merry Christmas, Enjolras!_

A second message quickly followed.

_R: Actually…do you celebrate Christmas? Or not since your whole exodus-from-church-culture saga? Never can be sure with you apostates._

Enjolras felt the corner of his mouth tug upward in spite of himself. Grantaire was such a flippant bastard sometimes. But honestly, Enjolras couldn’t imagine him being any other way.

 _I celebrate colorful lights._ Enjolras replied. _And snow. And eggnog. Does that count?_

_R: Well, aren’t you just downright sentimental haha_

_Oh yes. That’s me. I’m quite infamous for my sentimentality, didn’t you know?_

_R: I heard something about that. And can’t forget your shameless romanticism either._

Enjolras chuckled, settling into a chair by the kitchen table. It dawned on him this was the first conversation he’d had with anyone in almost 11 days, outside of Combeferre, who had finally gotten Enjolras to agree to travel down to Virginia for New Years.

“I shouldn’t have to ask you so many times!” Combeferre had finally snapped, not trying to admonish Enjolras in a harsh way, but also not realizing how his friend would spend the next several hours pondering the truth of that statement and wondering why he _was_ so inept at graciously accepting what people willingly offered. He’d yet to solve that quandary.

Truth be told, Enjolras was looking forward to seeing Ferre and being around his family after the loneliness of the past few days. Hearing from Grantaire also helped on that score.

_What are you up to?_

_R: Ummmm…. You’ll laugh, but whatever. Watching Christmas cartoons with my niece. Rudolph, to be exact. We’re eating bacon and toast._

Enjolras did not laugh, but he couldn’t help at least smiling at the endearing quality of that mental picture. _Sounds fun and delicious. I didn’t know you were an uncle._

_R: That’s because you spent the first year and a half of our acquaintance despising me to the core for an only partially good reason haha_

_I did not despise you._

_R: I mean, not capitalism level of loathing. But we can both admit, there was (or is?) some degree of dislike…be honest…_

Enjolras huffed out a laugh, wondering how much the topic of capitalism actually dominated his conversation. As for the other charge against him—it didn’t seem worth denying, especially since they’d already addressed it and the whole incident belonged in the past. But he wanted to make sure Grantaire knew that crucial part of it as well.

_Was…. ‘Is’ only when you’re purposely trying to get under my skin._

_R: Good to know ;)_

_However, from what I understand, the feeling was mutual._

_R: Was it?_

_Wasn’t it?_

_R: I mean, okay…I’ll admit… the term ‘tight ass’ definitely has a different connotation when I think of you now, as opposed to before._

Enjolras’ hand flew up to cover his gaping mouth. Talk about being a flippant bastard. Oscillating between amusement and mortification, he was still trying to figure out what he should say in response when his phone vibrated again.

_R: Shit. I should go. My sister is getting very disgruntled that I’m texting when we agreed to a strictly no-phone Christmas Day. My niece is also complaining, little fucker._

Thank god. _Fair enough. Hope you have a wonderful Christmas._

_R: Same to you. Maybe mix a little brandy in your eggnog ;)_

_Goodbye, Grantaire._

_R: Haha_

Enjolras shook his head, grinning, and feeling significantly lighter than he had an hour ago. He tucked his phone into his back pocket, contently acknowledging there was certainly no reason to delete those messages.

* * *

Enjolras had never been to Richmond, but he immediately felt at ease with the typical urban noise and bustle when Combeferre picked him up from the bus station a couple days later, ahead of New Year’s Eve. Part of that probably had to do with the fact that it was Combeferre there to greet him, and Enjolras appreciated the sight of a familiar face.

On the way to his house, they stopped for Greek food at a quaint Mediterranean restaurant called Stella’s. Over gyros, hummus and spanakopita, Combeferre asked Enjolras about his holidays and how it went selling his grandmother’s home.

“Was it hard to say goodbye?” he asked, wiping a drop of tzatziki sauce from his finger onto a napkin and obviously avoiding Enjolras’ gaze.

Enjolras considered the question for a moment. There were emotions beneath the surface, but nothing he wanted to indulge or pay attention to. He had buried them on purpose. “Not really. I’ve never felt attached to people through material things. I’m just glad to have the job done, really.”

Combeferre looked skeptical. There was also a hint of watchful sympathy that Enjolras found thoughtful but unnecessary. He chuckled softly. “I promise, Ferre—I’m fine. I’ve moved on from it all. Nothing will bring my mother or grandmother back. Not keeping a house, nor holding onto their personal affects. There are better ways to remember them. The rest is waste.”

“Alright, fine,” Combeferre put up his hands in mock surrender. “I know you’re usually stoic when it comes to this stuff. Just wanted to make sure nothing was triggered by the holidays—at least nothing that I could help with.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Enjolras shrugged, “but there isn’t any cause for it. I’m fine.” He knew Combeferre wouldn’t be one to press him—unlike _other_ _people_ , who most definitely would. There was a certain safety in that. “And how about your holidays? Have you talked to Eponine?”

Over the remainder of their meal and paying their check, Combeferre shared briefly about his family’s Hanukkah celebrations. They had also attended their fair share of Christmas parties hosted by friends and his parents’ colleagues. Nothing striking or out of the ordinary. But when Combeferre launched into answering Enjolras’ second question—about his recent communication with Eponine—Enjolras witnessed his friend’s face visibly light up.

“We’ve been texting almost every day,” Combeferre grinned, slipping into his heavy red jacket. “We haven’t made anything official yet. I think we’re waiting to hang out a bit more in person.”

“Is that something you want, though?” Enjolras asked, pulling on his gloves and following Combeferre out of the restaurant. The pavement was starting to glisten as the waning light of late afternoon bounced off thin sheets of ice and pockets of snow.

“I think so,” Combeferre answered slowly, taking his time to consider the question. “Just based off how things are going so far. I definitely have feelings for her, you know?”

It suddenly occurred to Enjolras that Combeferre With a Girlfriend could potentially look and feel very different than Combeferre Without a Girlfriend. He wondered if Combeferre’s changing status would affect their friendship. That seemed to happen often, albeit to varying degrees depending on the person in said relationship. But it would be more of a shame with Combeferre than it had been with Enjolras’ past acquaintances. He’d gotten used to having Combeferre around and available and involved. Les Amis probably wouldn’t even exist without him—at least not in the way it currently did.

If Combeferre noticed the thoughtful concern in Enjolras’ countenance, he didn’t say anything. He was instead relaying a story Eponine had shared about getting lost for two hours with her sisters while trying to find a particular neighborhood filled with homes that were supposed to be extravagantly decked out with festive lights and decorations. Apparently, they never found it, but they did find a random roadside stand with the best hot cocoa.

“I think I also might have heard, for the first time, how she is when she’s super pissed,” Combeferre laughed, switching on the heat as they pulled out of the parking lot and started toward I-195.

“Really?” Come to think of it, Enjolras also hadn’t seen Eponine get upset or even fazed by much of anything. She had the same streak of edgy indifference as Grantaire, although she was more prone to displays of warm openness than her friend. “What happened?”

“Apparently, while she was at the mall with her mom, she ran into someone she knew from high school—someone named Aaron, I’m pretty sure it was.”

Enjolras’ heart skipped a beat. “Aaron?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre continued, switching on his windshield wipers as the snow began to fall in earnest. “They had a falling out. Over Grantaire actually. Or maybe Grantaire and Aaron had a fight?” He thought for a second and then added, “No, you know what—I think Grantaire and Aaron dated, and it didn’t end well. I don’t know… something like that,” he shrugged. His interest in the story was clearly tied to Eponine’s emotional reaction to her unexpected encounter with Aaron as opposed to accurately identifying who exactly Aaron was and what he did to initially cause the tension.

For Enjolras, the opposite was true. The name alone sparked a discomfort deep within the pit of his stomach that he didn't quite recognize. He felt an urge to ask questions, to pry for information, but he sat tight-lipped, staring at the dark blurry buildings they passed on their way to Bon Air, and waited for Combeferre to continue of his own volition.

At last, having successfully merged onto the highway, Combeferre did. “Anyway, apparently Aaron approached her. Pretty sure she told him to fuck off or something,” he laughed again, “but he kept insisting that he ‘needed to talk to her.’ He was trying to explain a miscommunication or… apologizing? Or something? He was hoping Eponine would talk to Grantaire for him, or give him Grantaire’s contact information, because he wanted to get in touch. Maybe he was hoping they could get back together? I don’t know…it was wild.”

Realizing his sustained silence might raise questions, Enjolras took a quick breath to alleviate the tightness in his throat. “Interesting,” he mumbled, keeping his gaze focused outward in case any of the confusing emotions he was experiencing decided to dance across his expression.

“She ranted for a good minute or two about ‘the fucking nerve of him,’ and how he’s a ‘goddamn manipulator,’ and how she’d rather die than apologize to Grantaire on his behalf. Apparently, he had quite a hold on Grantaire, and truthfully, I think she was a little bit scared for Aaron to reach out, not just because it could potentially hurt Grantaire or whatever, but because he might actually succeed in winning him back. Either way, she was _livid_. I’m telling you, Enjolras. It was intimidating,” Combeferre added, although he didn’t sound intimidated at all. He sounded impressed. “You would not want to be on her bad side.”

“Especially when it comes to Grantaire, it would seem,” Enjolras mused out loud, pursing his lips.

“Seriously,” Combeferre nodded. “She is insanely protective of him. I doubt she even gave Aaron Grantaire’s phone number. Although, from what she told me, he was pretty insistent and said it was urgent, so who knows?”

“Who knows,” Enjolras repeated, trying to keep his voice light and airy. He was painfully curious. And although he wasn’t one to engage in drama or interfere in the lives of his adult friends, he could sort of understand where Eponine was coming from, wanting to deter Aaron from reaching out to Grantaire. In Enjolras’ opinion, it would only serve to upset Grantaire to hear from him after all these years. Unless, maybe, he did want to resume their relationship? Grantaire had described Aaron as his first love. That’s not something people got over easily, from what Enjolras had heard. He hadn’t experienced it himself.

“You alright?” Combeferre asked, his eyebrows tented quizzically.

“Hmm?” Enjolras realized he had fallen quiet for several seconds. “Yeah. Of course. Just a little tired.”

“Well, not to worry,” Combeferre smiled, easily reassured. “We’ll have a chill night. And my dad made a ton of food for us. We can just veg out.”

“Sounds great.”

As promised, Combeferre’s house was nice and calm when they arrived. A soft yellow glow, reflecting off the abundance of rich wood finishes, and the pungent smell of cinnamon and vanilla permeated the space. Combeferre’s parents greeted Enjolras warmly when the young men entered the living room. His teenaged sister was also seated on a plush beige La-Z-Boy, her legs swung over the side and headphones in her ears. As they passed by, she glanced up and waved, and Enjolras was struck by her resemblance to Grantaire. They had the same leisurely grins and springy coils, although hers were longer and danced around her shoulders. Her eyes also contained more gold than his did.

“Make yourself at home,” said Combeferre’s mom, who had quickly introduced herself as Leah and insisted that Enjolras refer to her as that instead of Mrs. Cabine. “We don’t have plans for this evening, but we thought we could catch a movie at the theater tomorrow afternoon if you boys want to tag along.”

“You don’t have to feel pressured to hang out with the parents, though, if you don’t want to,” Will, Combeferre’s father, added quickly, taking Enjolras’ coat and hanging it by the door.

“No,” Enjolras smiled reassuringly. The domesticity of the whole scene was strange, almost surreal, but in a pleasant way. This, apparently, was what normal family life looked like. “I’d love to join you all.”

Leah ushered them up to the attic, which was set up as a guestroom for Enjolras, while Will offered to reheat the lasagna he’d made for dinner.

An hour later, Enjolras and Combeferre were reclining on the couch, filled with pasta and garlic bread and watching the news. It was better, much better, than being alone, Enjolras noted, as they kept up a running commentary on the current events being discussed by the long-faced newscaster. When his phone buzzed, Enjolras glanced down at it absent-mindedly.

_R: You’ll never guess where I am._

Caught off guard, Enjolras quickly typed back a response so he could tuck his phone back by his side before Combeferre noticed. _Michigan?_

The next moment, however, Combeferre left to get another drink, offering to grab Enjolras one as well.

“Yes, please,” Enjolras responded, readjusting his position on the couch and ignoring the vibration in his pocket until Combeferre had left the room. When he was out of sight, Enjolras pulled out his phone again. A strange fluttering sensation swept through his chest.

_R: Wow. And your intelligence is supposed to be your selling point, Enjolras._

_Intelligence… or ambition?_

_R: Good question. Probably both define you. And I’d add passion?_

Enjolras had heard these adjectives used to describe his personality countless times before, but he wasn’t aware they had caught Grantaire’s notice. However, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of the other young man vigorously psycho-analyzing him. _Anyway, this is beside the point. Where are you?_

_R: At an art museum in Grand Rapids. It’s a holiday tradition, my sister and I go every year._

_Isn’t it a little late to be at a museum?_

_R: They had an evening event, so extended hours. And right now, they have a temporary exhibit on political art!_

_No kidding? What a coincidence._

_R: Anyway, I figured it was imperative I tell you ASAP. If only to prove I was right._

Enjolras rolled his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. _On a topic I already knew about and on which we have the same opinion?_

_R: God damn it, Enjolras. Can you just not?_

_Sorry, sorry. I’ll give you this, if it will make you feel that much better about yourself. ‘You’re right.’_

_R: Wow…I’ll take ‘Words I Never Thought I’d Hear Enjolras Say’ for $500, Alex._

Enjolras snorted, chancing a glance around to make sure he was still alone. _Good god. So, what’s in the exhibit?_

_R: Bunch of work from Chadwick, Export and Iveković. Photos from Capa. A smaller portion covering some contemporary public artwork by a Michigan student named Bridget Quinn… You’d probably like her stuff._

Not recognizing two of the artists Grantaire named, Enjolras felt himself a bit intimidated for the first time ever in their conversation. He made a mental note to Google the artists later, instead asking, _What makes you say that?_

_R: Anti-colonialism, anti-capitalism, anti-patriarchy._

_Okay. You got me._

_R: Haha I like to think I know you at least a little bit by now. Also, they had a classical concert today for their Sunday series. That’s why we’re here so late._

_That’s right. You like classical music. Probably one of the more unexpected things I’ve learned about you so far._

_R: Haha I am definitely a sucker for the piano._

_I play the piano._

_R: You’re fucking kidding me, right?_

Enjolras was taken aback. He was sure he’d mentioned this to Grantaire in a past conversation. Also, his adamant response was unexpected. _No? 10 years. And counting._

_R: Goddamn. I hate you._

_What? Why??_

_R: Anyway, why was it unexpected that I should like classical music?_

_You didn’t answer my question, but okay. And I don’t know…_ Mulling it over for a moment, Enjolras realized he had to admit, rather shamefully, that his surprise resulted from baseless assumptions. But he possessed the frankness to admit as much out loud—or via text message. _Stereotypes, I guess. So that was my error._

_R: Because of the tattoos and nose ring?_

God. His nose ring. Enjolras didn’t know why he found it so attractive. Or the tattoos written across his body. Or Grantaire’s —but no, Enjolras didn’t actually want to start thinking about any of that at the moment. Facetiousness was safer. _To be honest, Grantaire, I don’t know if I’ve ever observed you being quiet at a level or duration that classical music would be audible over the sound of your garrulous voice._

_R: Hahaha. Dick. I think I may be moodier than you realize. I have my highs and my lows. Also, you probably haven’t been listening to the right classical music. There are some pieces that make quite the statement, you know?_

_You may be right. I might need you to educate me._

_R: Hmmm… Is that an invitation ;)?_

“Who are you texting?”

Enjolras’ head shot up. Combeferre was setting two mugs of steaming apple cider and a plate of snickerdoodle cookies onto the coffee table. He didn’t look accusatory, merely curious, maybe dangerously so.

“Emailing my advisor,” Enjolras lied quickly, glad he hadn’t dropped his phone into his lap, as was his initial impulse. That no doubt would’ve seemed incredibly suspicious. “Trying to get more information about the Study Abroad program.”

“Ah, I see. Kind of a bummer.” Combeferre held out the plate of cookies so Enjolras could grab one. They were still warm and soft.

“What? Why?” 

“No reason,” Combeferre shrugged, plopping back down on the couch and propping his feet up on a footstool. His face was mischievous. “I was thinking maybe it was something else. Or someone else. Kind of got my hopes up.”

“Like who?” _Please don’t be blushing. Please don’t be blushing._

“Oh, I don’t know _who_ it would be, exactly,” Combeferre acknowledged quickly. “I didn’t have a particular person in mind. Maybe just someone _special_. ... And I thought for sure I might be right, damn it.”

Enjolras broke his own cookie in half and took a bite, savoring the blend of spice and sugar. He forced a chuckle, hoping it would reaffirm the audacity of such an idea—namely, the idea of him _ever_ having someone special to talk to. “Oh, really? And why is that?”

Combeferre shrugged again and popped the rest of the treat into his mouth. “Honestly? I’ve just never seen you smile like that before.”

* * *

The next three days were filled with a flurry of fun activity, tempered with just the right amount of laziness and lounging around to make Enjolras extremely anxious for school to resume so he could get back to work. Along with going to the movies, they also visited various hotspots and restaurants around Richmond as a group. Enjolras enjoyed getting to be privy to the close-knit dynamic of Combeferre’s family—as well as his father’s cooking. Seriously. He hadn’t eaten so well in years.

By New Year’s Eve, as the trip was approaching its end, Enjolras felt completely at ease joining their conversation and speaking his mind and asking their thoughts. Leah’s influence on Combeferre’s philosophical mind and love of reading became increasingly evident. As for Combeferre’s mild manner and fluid conversation, that was clearly inherited from his father. All together, they had numerous spirited debates on everything from movies and books to American politics and segregation in the South.

“I think my parents are ready to adopt you,” Combeferre joked as they sat outside on the patio adjoining the guestroom on New Year’s Eve. They were filling the countdown to midnight with music and the unintelligible noise of revelers partying in the distance. A few neighborhood kids were setting off celebratory flairs and laughing riotously.

“Really?" Enjolras asked with a smile. "I happily accept your family as a surrogate.”

Combeferre looked pleased. “I’m glad that’s how you feel. And I hope you really can think of them that way. Like I’ve said before, we’re here for anything you need.”

“I know that, Ferre,” Enjolras responded earnestly, taking a moment to catch Combeferre’s thoughtful gaze. “And I appreciate that.”

Just as the tender moment threatened to break their cheery mood, Combeferre pointed in the direction of the colorful sparks sizzling ephemerally a few feet from the pavement and then dissipating. “What do you think the chances are that one of those kids lights their clothes on fire before the end of the night?”

Enjolras laughed, settling back into the comfortable space that didn’t contain the vulnerability and affection present along the path toward a deepening friendship.

As the night wore on, they listened to Queen and ate fudge and discussed emailing group members with information about their first meeting after winter break. Combeferre was mildly distracted by his phone, glancing down at it every minute or so during their conversation. Finally, Enjolras encouraged him to just go call Eponine, for the love of god, because he obviously wanted to.

“Okay,” Combeferre agreed gratefully, already up and heading for the patio door. “Just a couple minutes, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Sure he would. “Sounds good,” Enjolras chuckled.

He honestly didn’t mind the solitude, especially when he could be outside on a night like this, the air thick and filled with moisture, likely heralding an imminent snowfall. However, looking up at the moment, the sky was relatively cloudless, a rich, dense black. Bright stars sharply pierced the blanketed atmosphere like pins in a cushion, and the moon was a lustrous white-gold pendant hanging above it all. Enjolras could clearly see bold Orion, lifting his invisible sword, with his hunting companions Canis Major and Canis Minor chasing his heels. The constellations made him think of Grantaire. Enjolras wondered if the other young man could see the stars that he adored any better from his sister’s house in Grand Rapids than in downtown Chicago.

Enjolras briefly considered texting to ask him as much, but thought better of it. That would be weirdly personal, wouldn’t it? Still... Grantaire had messaged him twice already. It could surely do no harm to send him _something_ —since he just happened to be on Enjolras’ mind anyway.

After a moment of careful deliberation, Enjolras settled for a distinctly not weird and not personal, _Happy New Year_ , which he felt good about until he remembered it was close to midnight. That definitely undermined the propriety of texting Grantaire at all, given the lateness of the hour.

However, if he was being indecorous, Grantaire obviously didn’t mind, or perhaps was content to be indecorous with Enjolras, for his response came almost immediately.

_R: Well, well, hey there, Apollo…and a Happy New Year to you, too!!!_

Enjolras was momentarily thrown off by Grantaire’s boisterous tone. Plus, he recalled this was at least the second time Grantaire had teased him with that nickname, which made it seem all the more intentional and intriguing. Emboldened, Enjolras ventured further.

_What are you up to?_

_R: It’s New Year’s Eve, Enjolras haha... What do you think I’m up to?_

Ah. He was drinking. That would explain the frivolity. But if Grantaire was out with friends or at a party, Enjolras didn’t want to bother him. He waited a minute or so, mulling a reply, when his phone lit up with another message.

_R: And do I dare ask if you are possibly celebrating New Year’s Eve like a typical college student this year? Or are you holed up somewhere plotting your five-year strategic plan?_

Grantaire always managed to get under his skin, and Enjolras wondered why it wasn’t more off-putting. Instead, he felt himself wanting to take the bait. _Uh. Hello. Do you know me at all?_

When he saw the response seconds later, his heart started pounding.

_R: Actually, I would say better than most, Enjolras ;). Also, note my use of the word ‘possibly’._

_Fair enough._ Seriously? He couldn’t think of something wittier to reply that might not bring the conversation to a grinding halt? The mild flirtation had simply unnerved him. He tried again. _Are you enjoying these libations alone or with friends?_

_R: Not with friends. Not alone. If I was alone, I might actually be enjoying them. But even that’s hard to tell at the moment._

_Really? Why’s that?_

_R: Because, lately, I’ve found that not even beer holds the same appeal for me as the taste of your mouth, dammit_

Enjolras sucked in a gulp of air. Goosebumps spread like frost across his skin. So, Grantaire was obviously drunk, or close to it. It was the only explanation for such a brazen, unguarded response.

And if Enjolras continued this conversation, who the hell knew where it would end up? Where the hell did he even _want_ it to end up? And yet. The uncertainty of it all was more than a little addicting. Releasing a tremulous breath and pulling together what boldness he could muster, Enjolras typed a reply and pushed send as quickly as he could.

_Interesting. I seem to be experiencing the same dilemma._

_R: Oh? Do tell._

Of course Grantaire wouldn’t make this easy. But Enjolras had waded in now, and he was determined to do this right, even if his face felt positively ablaze. _Well, I can’t seem to shake off the thought of your mouth either. How it felt…how you kissed me with it…how you sucked me off with it._

_R: Holy fuck._

Enjolras felt both satisfaction and mortification. Where was this coming from? Better yet, why was it coming so easily? He didn’t have long to analyze the contradicting emotions currently tormenting his nerves before Grantaire sent another message.

_R: Wait. Is this really happening? Sorry… I’m a bit…impaired at the moment, if you know what I mean._

Enjolras chuckled. _You don’t say…._

_R: Okay. No need for your snide. Answer my question._

_Do you want it to happen?_

_R: Nope. Not what I asked._

Enjolras considered for a moment. He appreciated Grantaire’s almost religious commitment to the idea that consent must always be explicit, even when applied to relatively tame sexting. But he could do without the vulnerability and frustration of being put on the spot. Buying some time to think, he wrote back, _Is it not obvious?_

_R: Actually, no._

Okay. That was probably valid, but also—Grantaire had started the flirtatious part of this exchange. It was only fair he should also clarify his position.

_R: From what I gathered the other night, you were expecting it to be a one-night stand. Yeah?_

_That’s correct._

_R: And now, what we’re doing…or could do??…You want to do this a second time?_

_Is this technically a second time? Maybe this is more just closure for that night… like a debriefing, if you will._

_R: How very sexy._

_R: Actually… come to think of it, I’m all for ‘debriefing’ you any chance I get._

_Oh god, that was pathetic. I expect more from you, Grantaire._

_R: I already told you I’m drunk. And now, frankly, I’m a little disoriented, because I didn’t exactly expect this. And you just brought to mind a vivid and very sexy image of your face when I made you come._

Trying to ignore his growing erection, in case Grantaire wanted out, Enjolras forced the question. _So, are you comfortable with this… conversation? Would you like to stop now? And pretend it never happened?_

_R: Yes. No. No._

_Okay._

_R:_ _I’m relieved to hear I made such a good impression. Would’ve been seriously disappointed if I was the only one thinking about such things._

Wanting to give Grantaire a taste of his own medicine, Enjolras simply wrote back. _Elaborate please._

_R: Mmm…I do so love it when you say ‘please,’ Enjolras. Glad to know you’re already catching on that to get what you want, you have to ask nicely._

“Good god,” Enjolras muttered into the inky silence of night. He assumed Grantaire was mostly picking at his normally domineering personality, but there was also an unquestionably sexual undertone whenever he made comments like that. Glancing around to make sure he was completely alone, Enjolras let his hand drift down to his dick. He wasn’t surprised to find it already straining the confines of his trousers. Blushing at his eagerness, he held his phone close to his face and waited with bated breath for Grantaire to continue.

_R: Things I have been thinking of lately (in no particular order): The smell of your hair fanned out on my chest. How fun it was marking up your neck. That scar on your lower abs. And your abs. Your hand curled on my dick. The way your legs trembled when you came._

Enjolras was breathless now, completely sucked into a strange vacuum, cognizant of nothing but the sound of blood pulsing in his ears.

_Rather pleasant night for you then?_

_R: To say the absolute fucking least... And you?_

_It was. And are you growing hard now, thinking back on it?_

_R: Holy shit.... Hang on._

Enjolras used the pause to move inside out of the cold. However, he couldn’t settle down quite yet. He felt nervous and prickly, unsure whether this was more or less terrifying than what they did the other night. After several minutes of pacing, Grantaire texted back and it prompted Enjolras to sink to the bed.

_R: Sorry, needed to get some space or I was about to make a young woman I barely know very awkward and uncomfortable. Or maybe very confused and unfairly hopeful?_

_Oh?_

_R: Full disclosure, I was in the middle of a conversation with her when you texted._

_Well, you should go finish the conversation, Grantaire. Or do whatever it was you were hoping to get up to with her tonight._

_R: Oh, shut up, Enjolras. I’d rather be talking to you. And I’m pretty sure you know that._

That one sparked a different emotion. Simple and saccharine, and yet maybe more alarming. _I’ll try to make it worth your while._

_R: You always do. So, now that I’m alone…let’s get back to the business at hand. Would you like to know what I would do to you right now if I was there beside you, Enjolras?_

_Yes._

_R: ??_

It took Enjolras a couple seconds to figure out what Grantaire was asking of him. When it finally registered, every ounce of his considerable pride balked at being treated this way. But it was also weirdly bewitching.

_Please?_

_R: Not quite there._

Swallowing the instinctive rise of stubborn anger, because goddamn it, he was now incredibly horny and _really_ wanted to get off, Enjolras replied. _Please, Grantaire… tell me what you would do to me?_

_R: Mm… nicely done._

Enjolras had no idea why Grantaire seemed so drawn to the idea of Enjolras submitting to him, what he gained from it. But Enjolras couldn’t deny he was equally responsive—mentally _and_ physically—to this upheaval of the status quo. It was a change of pace for him, a reversal of the normal power dynamic shared between him and most other humans. In this safe, private place, with no one else watching, he could voluntarily cede control and let someone else _take care of him_ , so to speak, even in this way he never realized he needed.

The existence of Grantaire in his life was causing all kinds of chaos to what he thought he knew about himself. And a dangerous part of him was fascinated to discover what else might be hidden in his subconscious.

All he had to do, as Grantaire seemed increasingly fond of reminding him, was “ask nicely.” Still, Enjolras couldn’t imagine going down without a bit of a fight. _So glad you approve._

_R: Yeah. That’s not the tone you should be taking with me right now. You want to try again?_

Blushing furiously, enticingly humiliated, Enjolras typed back. _I’m sorry._

_R: That’s more like it._

Suddenly, Enjolras’ phone vibrated insistently on his chest where he was resting it. Apprehensively, he pushed answer. “Hello?”

Grantaire’s voice was soft and throaty, and it caused an unexpected plummeting sensation deep inside Enjolras. “Hey. Thought this might be easier. Especially since you’ll need your hands free for the next part. S’alright?”

Enjolras glanced toward the door of the guestroom. It was shut. Maybe not locked, but it hardly seemed likely Combeferre would return tonight. For good measure, Enjolras turned off his lamp so the room was pitch black except for a milky stream of moonlight pooling on the floor.

He cleared his throat, settling down onto the tall Victorian-style bed with the phone pressed close to his ear. “Yes. It’s alright.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice,” Grantaire stated plainly, his speech loosened by drink. It was followed by a pause, then a slightly bashful laugh. “That’s probably weird.”

“No,” Enjolras hurried to respond, not wanting Grantaire to feel bad when he was doing Enjolras the favor. Plus, Grantaire’s alcohol-induced confession didn’t bother him in the least. In fact, it was very possible Enjolras had actually started missing Grantaire over the past two weeks. “I’m glad to talk with you. Honestly.”

Grantaire hummed, as was his habit on the rare occasion he needed a second to think or process before speaking, and the familiarity of the sound made Enjolras smile.

“Well,” Grantaire continued, gaining confidence though his voice remained low and rough, “I plan to make you plenty glad by the time we’re done here. Now. Why don’t we start with you removing your clothes?”

There was the hint of a command to it, and even though Grantaire would have no way of knowing whether or not Enjolras was dressed, Enjolras felt like he couldn’t _not_ comply.

“Alright.” He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off, along with his pants, and laid back against his pillow.

“Are you naked now, Enjolras?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm…I’m going to conjure _that_ image and savor it for a second,” Grantaire murmured. “Do you know how attractive you are, Enjolras? All it takes is a glimpse of your gorgeous face to drive me absolutely crazy. And who the hell knew you had a body to rival it?”

They were rhetorical questions, and Enjolras was acutely grateful he wasn’t expected to respond. Neither agreeing nor denying seemed comfortable or appropriate. All he could do was absorb how the words made him feel, and also question whether they depicted the rampant hyperbole that was commonplace among casual fucking or if any part of Grantaire was serious. Did Enjolras actually have any semblance of that effect on Grantaire?

“If I was there,” Grantaire continued languidly, seemingly unconcerned by the silence on the other end and taking his time to speak, in the same way he would take his time to touch Enjolras, relishing each word, each motion along the way, “I’d start by directing you to place your hands on the headboard and to keep them there until I told you otherwise. Unless you wanted to suffer the consequences. Then I’d slowly run my hands down your body. Scraping over your chest and those delicious abs of yours, down to your hips. Your fucking beautiful thighs. Shit, I had no idea you were so athletic. Then I might lick your nipples, pinch them, bite them. You seemed to like that, yeah?”

That was not a rhetorical question, Enjolras suddenly realized. The best he could do, however, was stammer, “Y-yes. I did.”

“Hmmm… that’s what I thought. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind for the future…just in case. So, I’d make sure I played with those sensitive nipples of yours, until you were trembling under my touch, and then I might suck your neck, creating a lovely bruise that’d last for days. And it would be a sign, for anyone and everyone to see, that I had consumed your gorgeous body—that I used you. And you let me.”

Enjolras was biting down hard on his lip, but a small whimper still escaped. He wanted desperately to stroke his cock, but it also seemed like he should wait until Grantaire told him he was supposed to.

“Would you like that? To be mine for a night? For me to use you how I wanted?”

And unexpectedly, Enjolras was blurting out in a single hapless breath, “Yes, Grantaire,” and he knew in that instant it was undeniably true. What in god’s name did that mean about him?

“Fuck, Enjolras,” Grantaire’s own voice sounded a little choked, maybe even surprised. Enjolras could hear him adjusting the phone, as well as a slight rustling sound that he assumed was the removal of clothing. “Yeah. That’s what I would do. I’d make you lay there, arms stretched above you, no touching allowed, while I licked and sampled every…single…inch of your body. Except your cock. Your delicious cock, which would no doubt be dripping and hard at this point. And you’d be dying—for the slightest stroke. The smallest touch of my mouth. Just one kiss. But I’d make you wait.”

“Jesus Christ.” Enjolras switched his phone to the speaker setting, praying to every nameless deity in existence that Combeferre was asleep or at least could not hear the noise in his adjacent bedroom. Then he started caressing his body in the way Grantaire had described, brushing his thumb roughly over his nipple and dropping his other hand to none-too-gently graze his thigh. But he left his cock neglected. Just like Grantaire said.

“Yeah,” Grantaire breathed. Enjolras could’ve sworn he heard him spit into his hand, and molten arousal swelled in the pit of his stomach. “I’d make you wait, while I fucking devoured the rest of your body. But I wouldn’t be waiting. I’d be touching myself. Like I am right now. I’m thinking about you, Enjolras, laying there naked and quivering and _wanting_ , and I’m touching my cock. And you could do nothing but watch.”

“Please, Grantaire,” Enjolras whimpered again, unable to control himself.

On the other end of the line, Grantaire made a startled noise. “Hang on… are you really waiting to touch yourself? Because I said I would make you?”

“Yes…?” Enjolras paused, finding it difficult to talk at the moment when all he wanted to do was lose himself in the salacious narrative Grantaire was weaving. And take his cock in his hand. He _definitely_ wanted that. “I thought that was part of the game.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, it can be. I just…fuck. You’re something else, Enjolras. I never dreamed… yeah, okay,” he said, composing himself and switching back to the tone that dripped with easy confidence and made Enjolras’ heart skip a beat, “That’s good. That’s very good, Enjolras. So, here’s what you’re going to do. You listening?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to rub your hands, down your chest, over your hips and your thighs. Use your nails. So it leaves marks. So it hurts. And while you do that, think of me. Hard for you. Just for you. Getting ready to fuck you into that mattress.”

Enjolras gasped. The image was too clear, too vivid. He could see it perfectly in his mind. How it would look to be on his knees, still gripping the headboard, because Grantaire hadn’t given him permission to let go. With Grantaire behind him, fingers clawing into his hips, thrusting into him.

“Please,” Enjolras all but whined. “Please, Grantaire. I can’t…I need…”

“Well, well. Enjolras struggling with his words—that’s new.” Grantaire’s soft chuckle made the speaker vibrate. He was obviously enjoying Enjolras’ discomfort. “I’m afraid, though, babe, that you’re going to need to find _some_ words, if you want any chance of getting what you crave. Of getting to come tonight while you think about me.”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras spat out before he could stop himself, the word “babe” ringing in his ear as an abstract, distant alarm. However, the thick haze clogging his mind made it impossible to absorb and analyze that detail too much at the moment.

Grantaire just laughed again, with a harsher quality. “I’m the one who would be doing the fucking, thank you very much. Although, with that kind of language, looks like you’ll be waiting a little longer.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras protested, a shiver running through his body. He’d never been this horny in his life, and that included the evening he had spent with Grantaire before winter break, when the other young man had kissed him so exquisitely.

“Next, I would bring my dick up to your mouth. And I’d have you open those beautiful lips and put them on me. Slowly, slowly. Looking up at me, so I could see your eyes. And you could see how good it made me feel to watch my cock disappear into your smart mouth.”

“Yes.” Enjolras could feel his hips involuntarily canting and tensing, setting a rhythm that mirrored the flow of Grantaire’s dialogue. Although nothing was there to meet them, no precious friction for his aching cock, except the still night air, the motion at least provided some relief, some outlet for the energy pulsing through him and collecting within his core.

“And I’d wrap my hands in your hair, to guide your head and keep you steady while I gently fucked your mouth. Also, wouldn’t I just adore seeing your pretty curls all messed up for once—fuck, not that it could make you look any less perfect,” Grantaire’s voice was growing rougher and more urgent as he continued. “And after a few moments of watching you lather my dick with your quick-witted tongue, getting it nice and wet, I’d tell you how _good_ you were, how very, very good. And how much I fucking wanted you. Because I do, Enjolras. I want you so bad…more than any…,” the sentence dissolved into a low grunt. Grantaire’s breath was now coming out in short, haggard spurts. No doubt he was getting close. And Enjolras had yet to touch his cock. It sat there, angry, throbbing, painfully full and completely ignored.

“I want you, too, Grantaire.” Enjolras whispered, entirely overcome with yearning at this point. “I want your cock. In my mouth. On my face. …. Inside me.”

Grantaire released another unbridled moan. “Fuck. Fuck. Enjolras.” Over the phone, Enjolras could hear him taking measured breaths, trying to get himself under control. A few seconds later, with only the smallest waver in his voice, Grantaire continued. “Now, I want you to think of me pushing you up to your hands and knees. Can you see it? And I’d feel your back curve instinctively beneath my hand, as I dragged it along your spine. Down to that firm, tight ass of yours. Oh, fuck Enjolras…”

“Grantaire. Please. Please.”

Grantaire ignored him in favor of describing the rest of the sequence. “I’d take your ass in my hands. Caress it. Lick it. Maybe slap it. Hard. Just to see you squirm.”

Enjolras threw back his head, his eyes squeezed shut, his fingernails digging into the tensed muscles of his thighs. However, the pain didn’t register on its own. It was just one more bright spark in the fire whipping through him. All he could focus on was the sexy, rough quality of Grantaire’s voice and what it would be like to experience what he described in real life—every single enticingly vulgar part.

“Then, I’d tell you to spread your legs, while I licked my finger, covering it with my spit, so I could push it into you. Slowly. Taking my time. Stretching you open. Now, I want you to touch yourself, Enjolras. Because that’s what I’d do. After you begged me in your adorably needy way. While I pushed my finger, and then another, slowly in and out of your gorgeous ass, I’d reach around and take your cock into my hand.”

With a sigh of relief, Enjolras grabbed hold of his dick, dragging his thumb up the underside of the warm, pulsing flesh and capturing the slick pre-cum at the top. Utter bliss. He shuddered, the air sounding like a hiss as it passed through his clenched teeth.

Grantaire moaned again. “That feel good, babe?”

Enjolras had no idea how Grantaire was able to speak so profusely and jerk himself off at the same time, but he was incredibly grateful. As for Enjolras, the best he could manage was, “Y-yes. Feels so good. God. I want you.”

“Mmmm. I’m sure you do. At this point, you’d be nice and opened up. Arching your back and giving me your ass, like a present. A gift for me to enjoy. And, _fuck_ , would I ever. I’d spread your cheeks, and take what you’re giving, so willingly, so eagerly. And I’d keep my hand wrapped around your pretty cock, stroking it, caressing it, while I fucked… you… blind.”

“ _God_.”

“Oh, fuck. _Enjolras_.”

The conversation dissolved into a chorus of pants and guttural moans, the occasional swear word or encouraging phrase contributing to the harmonic crescendo. It was a beautiful mess and Enjolras felt no pressure, no ability, to do anything but get utterly lost among it, under it, within it.

“Fuck. Baby, you’re so sexy… so goddamn sexy... I want you, Enjolras. I want you… I want you...”

When Enjolras heard Grantaire climax, crying out his name like a passionate prayer, it was too much. He groaned and quickened his pace, chasing down his own orgasm with fervor.

“Oh god. Grantaire.”

“That’s right,” Grantaire stuttered through gasps. “Come for me, baby.” 

With a stifled shout, Enjolras did just that, thinking of nothing but Grantaire. _Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire._ The powerful release tore through him, vanquishing every last coherent thought fighting for stable ground in his mind.

For several seconds there was silence except for the sound of their breathing, warped and delayed, as it was transmitted across the distance to create an imperfect imitation of togetherness.

“Fuck,” Grantaire mumbled, his voice muffled on the other end of the line. “Why is it so damn good with you?”

Dazed, Enjolras comprehended the words in the same way—disjointed bits and pieces. “I don’t know,” he responded brokenly, trying to slow his heart rate. “Maybe because I’m still new for you? The novelty hasn’t worn off yet?”

Grantaire’s hum was blatantly doubtful, but it quickly disintegrated into an audible yawn that made him sound positively nonchalant as he added, “Might have something to do with the fact you are _the_ _most_ striking person I’ve ever seen.”

Fuck. Enjolras had no idea what he could even respond to that, especially given Grantaire’s tone. In some way, the offhandedness of the comment made Enjolras feel safer. It seemed like the opinion was just an anomaly, an exception to the rule. And it only existed in this rare, sacred space, where it could be used to spur their clandestine cavorting. But it had no bearing on how they related to one another in the real world. Enjolras’ looks were merely a productive catalyst for sex. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’ve exceeded my expectations.”

Grantaire chuckled softly. “Thanks… I guess?”

Enjolras played back his words and realized how they could sound to someone not inside his head. “No,” he explained earnestly. “That’s not what I meant. It’s not that I had low expectations of _you_ , per se. It just seems that, _because_ of you, what we’ve done together, _sexually_ , has exceeded my expectations.”

“Oh. Okay.” Another pause. Another thought-processing hum. “So…do you need to go?”

Enjolras checked the time. 1:14 a.m. “I mean, it’s not like I have any pressing engagements I have to rush off to at this hour.”

“Well, well. Sounds like someone found their shrewd tongue again,” Grantaire teased. “Talk with me for a bit?”

“Alright,” Enjolras agreed. He yawned softly. It was late and time seemed an irrelevant illusion within the calm quiet they shared. Nothing that happened during these eerie, magical midnight hours was real anyway, right? Otherwise, Enjolras wouldn’t have felt the freedom to suggest, “We can just talk until we fall asleep.”

“Okay.” There was a pregnant silence, and when Grantaire spoke again, his voice had turned from pleased to abashed. “So, um, before…I think I might’ve called you ‘babe’?”

“…And ‘baby.’”

“Oh, _fuck_. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, Grantaire.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Enjolras stifled another yawn.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. So, you don’t mind the pet names?” Grantaire asked tentatively, quickly adding, “It just comes naturally, and seems kind of helpful, when we’re…you know, doing this. That’s all.”

“It was good.” _Good_ was hardly an adequate word for either the abnormal pleasure or intense anxiety it brought Enjolras to accept such labels for the first time in his life. But it would suffice for now.

“Okay.” Grantaire’s tone was colored with a smile. “And, also, I know I mentioned you, uh,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. The next words were uttered together in a single quick breath, “you-sucking-my-cock.”

“Yes… you did,” Enjolras smirked, deriving pleasure from being on the other end of the self-conscious spectrum this time. “Actually, fucking my mouth, is what I think you said.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said sheepishly. “I hope you know, uh, that I don’t expect… that is, I don’t, or you don’t _need_ to—”

“I’d like to,” Enjolras interjected boldly. “I would very much like to. If you want? …Next time?”

Silence followed and Enjolras worried that maybe it was too presumptuous. Wasn’t the first time supposed to be the only time? Was it permissible to amend that understanding now? But when Grantaire spoke again a few seconds later, his enthusiasm was palpable. “Yeah. Next time.”


End file.
